At the Shabbos table, my four-year-old niece was holding court in her squeaky, earnest voice about her choice for a spouse. Her brother was the same way; they just want to plan ahead, leaving nothing to chance.
"I don't like curly hair," she insisted, "so his hair will have to be straight. And he should be skinny"—my grandmother would be proud—"and not have those things on his face," she waved toward her father's glasses.
Of course, we were all pretty much cracking ribs to keep from laughing out loud.
"Uuuuuuum," she pondered, "what should his name be?"
"How about Yitzchak?" Ta offered to this fink on his lap.
"Yeah! No, Hadassa's Daddy's name is Yitzchak." Hadassa is her cousin who lives across the street.
"How about Avrumi?"
"Yes, Avrumi! No, wait, not Avrum, Avrahum."
Her future decided on, she slides off Ta's lap and patters off to play with the doll house.
Time will tell, I suppose, to see what this minx ends up with. Then I can throw it in her face by her vort.
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