"It's my maternally given right to fuss, nag, and bother," Paul declares, serenely. He likes to joke that he takes after his mother that way. Sometimes he's taken after her too much, he knows. Memories of disputes about appropriate child rearing varying from the comic to the serious dot their children's upbringing, but he likes to think he's found a balance.
They all still speak to him, and none of them have become tormented warlords, so he can't have done too badly.
"And you don't have to have children or grandchildren for a family," he informs the child, shifting his attention and his tone, "A family is like a garden. You can have sorts of different parts making it up, from flowers to herbs to vegetables to mushrooms, but it's all still a garden. Families can be any arrangement of people who decide to plant themselves next to each other."
"...oh." The child scrunches up their face thoughtfully. "Can I be a potato?"
"You are a potato, and that's why we're going to peel you, slice you up, and fry you until you're golden brown." Paul smiles benevolently, but with perhaps a little too much teeth, and the child shrieks in horrified delight.
no subject
They all still speak to him, and none of them have become tormented warlords, so he can't have done too badly.
"And you don't have to have children or grandchildren for a family," he informs the child, shifting his attention and his tone, "A family is like a garden. You can have sorts of different parts making it up, from flowers to herbs to vegetables to mushrooms, but it's all still a garden. Families can be any arrangement of people who decide to plant themselves next to each other."
"...oh." The child scrunches up their face thoughtfully. "Can I be a potato?"
"You are a potato, and that's why we're going to peel you, slice you up, and fry you until you're golden brown." Paul smiles benevolently, but with perhaps a little too much teeth, and the child shrieks in horrified delight.
"Noooo!"