Sitting next to me at the table, her little body was shaking, arms bent at 90-degrees, fists clenched.  “You know daddy, when I get frustrated, I smell a floor and blo ow a cannel,” she says so fast I couldn’t quite translate the three-year old speak into English.

“What?” I respond laughing.  “You do what when you get frustrated?  Why are you getting frustrated?”

“You know,” she begins to shake again, “when I get frustrated, at school, Miss Jen says when I get frustrated I smell a flower and blow out a candle,” she says, thinking she made her point clearly.

“You smell a flower and blow out a candle?” I ask slowly, enunciating.

“Yeah.  At school when I get frustrated,” she reiterates, offering her wide open eyes and nodding head as evidence of her conviction.

“Who taught you this?  Your mother or school?” I ask, more curious to discover if I’ll believe she is telling the truth when she answers than what her answer is.

“Miss Jen said at school,” her arms assume the position, but no shaking this time, “when I get frustrated, I should smell a flower and blow out a candle,” she says, not showing any signs of actually becoming frustrated during my uncalled for inquisition.

“Smell a flower and blow out a candle, eh?” I mutter to myself, this time widening my eyes as I take a deep breath through my nose and exhale through my mouth.  “Ha,” I say, rolling my eyes, smirking.  “What will they think up next?