Way to crush a fantasy, grumpy lady.
Our family goes to the dinosaur museum A LOT. You know, when it’s raining. When it’s cold. When we just can’t watch The Penguins of Madagascar ONE MORE TIME (by the way, until you’ve seen John Malkovich as an evil octopus you haven’t truly lived).
And so my kids have a pretty strong dinosaur obsession going. My son actually thinks he IS a dinosaur, and communicates mostly in a pidgin English comprising of roars and stomps. My daughter thinks that every driveway pebble we come across is a fossil, worthy of minutes of intense examination. Yes, it takes a very long time to get anywhere.
Matilda wants to be a paleontologist. At least, she says she does. She has no idea what one is, beyond someone who uses a paintbrush to sweep pretend soil off pretend bones, but look, I was happy to go with it, because the last thing she wanted to be was a Queen. And although the entry requirements for both those positions are pretty tough, at least the dinosaur discoverer doesn’t have to sleep with a balding prince or annex any small countries to get the gig.
Also, SHE’S FIVE.