When I was making breakfast this morning, the kid wanted a bagel with cream cheese and just a little bit of hot chocolate. I said we could share a cup or she could have her own little tiny mug. She took the latter option. I have a tiny “I Love NY” espresso mug that I got for her several years back when a friend and I took a 24-hour jaunt to NYC to see Paul Weller in concert at the Apollo (Paul Weller!). I had almost forgotten about it, and to the best of my knowledge, she hasn’t actually used the mug until this morning.

I took it down from the shelf, washed it out (yes, it had been gathering dust up there for a few years), and made her hot chocolate.

“What’s NY?” she asked.

“It stands for New York.”

“I hate New York.”

“It’s just the city, not the Yankees,” I explained. “You can like New York City without liking the Yankees.”

She considered this. “Okay. Because I hate the Yankees.”

“Me too.”

“I bet they hate the Indians.”

“I think they hate everyone who isn’t the Yankees.”

She gave a little “Hmph,” which from a seven-year-old is about as condescending a sound as you can get, and drank her hot chocolate.