The other day at breakfast, I was handing my five-year-old some toast…
Me: Here, eat some jam and bread like your ancestors.
Brontë: What are my “ancestors?”
Me: Well… okay, you know how I’m your mom and my mom is your grandma?
Me: Her mom is your great-grandma, right? And her mom was your great-great-grandma. If you keep going, you get to your ancestors… like your great-great-great-great-great-grandma. A lot of them came out of England and Scotland where they have lots of shows about orphans and eat jam and bread.
She ponders this.
Brontë: We have boys in our family, right?
Me: Of course!
Brontë: And they are our “an-brothers?”
Me: Oh… no. They’re also our ancestors. It’s an-CEST-ors, not an-SIST-ers…
Brontë (stomping off): THAT DOESN’T MAKE SENSE!