Hey Daddy, are you popular?” My eight-year-old daughter ambushed me one Sunday morning, her voice squeaking equally with cheekiness and curiosity.
“Huh?” I said, deep in a different thought as I looked up from my phone, half-dazed in a scrolling coma.
“Are you famous?” She hugged her iPad to her chest like it held information that could risk national security.
“Why do you ask?” I quizzed, suddenly giving her my full attention, courtesy of my ego recognizing a stroking opportunity.