(Insert Title Here)

A couple of weeks ago, my beloved presented our son with a Certificate of Excellence for The Best Getting Ready for Bed Ever. The award was bestowed on a boy usually belligerent at bedtime because he flossed, brushed, put on PJs, and used the potty in less than five minutes (it usually takes a good 25 minutes to coerce him to complete all these tasks).

This certificate, cherished as it is, has drifted through all three levels of our house, residing chronologically in the corner hutch of the dining room, on the kitchen counter, and, most recently, under an end table in the living room.

It was near this end table that the kids and I were eating lunch yesterday afternoon. They've taken to picnicking with some frequency on the tray table I use for the rare breakfast or evening tea in bed, spreading out a tablecloth on the floor and setting the table in the center.

We were semi-reclined after eating and were chatting a bit when big brother reached over and picked up the nomadic certificate. He studied it for a moment and then asked, "What does 'name-tittle' mean?"

The certificate, which was created using an MS Word template, had a signature line at the bottom with the words 'Name, Title' printed parenthetically beneath it. I explained that a title is a word or two describing what you do.

"Daddy's title is 'electrical engineer,'" I continued. "And Mommy's is 'freelance writer' or 'fitness instructor.'"

Our little man considered this and then said, "When I grow up, my title is going to be 'firefighter.'"

Then our little girl, not to be left out of the conversation, said with conviction, "And when I grow up, my title is going to be 'princess.'"