A few who read what I’m about to tell on myself might think I don’t deserve a child. And they might be correct–if they were talking about just any kid. Luckily, Celeste is half me, thus genetically equipped to dish out just as well (or better) as she receives.

Our house is not normal, but normal’s so overrated. Although we have our share of serious times, we’re most often silly. To successfully prank each other is, perhaps, our most common goal. Our family crest reads, “Do unto others, then duck.”

Both Geoff and Celeste are gifted at telling outrageous, I-should-know-better-than-to-believe-this lies, and they do so in such a casual, offhand manner that I’m continually caught off-guard. Even though I know this, I’m apparently so inherently gullible that my initial reaction is almost always to believe. It often takes an eye roll or a lip twitch for me to realize my chain’s being yanked. Although I’m nowhere near as gifted as them, once in a while, I manage a doozey

My favorite took place a few years ago, when Celeste and her friend, Jordan, were 7 and 8. The two had found a birdcage in our basement and decided to try hatching a raw egg from our refrigerator. I could’ve done as most moms would and explained the futility of their endeavor. Instead, as I walked past them, I casually said, “You need to keep that warm if you want it to hatch.”

Geoff followed my lead, “And be sure to turn it every 15 minutes or so.” For the next hour or two, they took turns holding and turning the egg. When they grew restless, they still made certain it stayed warm and regularly turned under a lamp. Gradually, they began to lose interest. Fifteen-minute checks stretched to thirty, then forty-five. By evening, they were still checking their egg every now and again for signs of hatching, but it was mostly forgotten in favor of some show on TV. So shortly after one of their checks, I sneaked the egg out of the cage, cracked it and emptied its contents, then arranged the empty shell amid the shredded newspaper on the floor of the cage. Geoff added a few tiny feathers he’d found, and then we simply left the door hanging open, just like they had.

An hour or so later, we heard the commotion. The egg had hatched! The chick had escaped! It was loose in the house!

Geoff and I sat quietly on the couch, smiling as we listened to the two tromping around, trying to track down their chick. “This is better for them than watching TV,” Geoff said. “Wish we’d saved a few of those feathers to give to the cat,” said I. Eventually, the kids came in the room where we were sitting. As Jordan excitedly told us what happened, I watched Celeste’s expression. And saw the moment it clicked.

She gave me a stern look, but was unable to maintain it while also suppressing a grin. She tapped Jordan on the shoulder.

“There’s no chick,” she said. “We’ve been had.”

As kids are so apt to do, they repaid our one joke by attempting to prank us 6,247 times that same night. In the years since then, I’d say she’s successfully out-pranked me ten to one, but I tell her quality wins out over quantity. I don’t get her often, but when I do, I get her good.

I was recently hanging shelves in the kitchen and Geoff was standing nearby fixing dinner when Celeste moseyed in and began climbing the doorframe, something she’s only recently become tall enough to do.

“I wish I was taller,” she said. “I’m not the shortest in my class, but I’m still awfully short.”

Who knows what possessed me?

“Actually, you’re not short at all,” I said. “If you were in the class you’re supposed to be in, you’d probably be one of the tallest.”

“What are you talking about?” Celeste asked. I paused, pretending to be thinking it over, then let out a loud sigh.

“Well, this probably isn’t the best way to tell you, but you’re actually eight, not ten.” I didn’t dare look away from my shelves for fear of cracking a grin. “It’s just that you were so smart and tested so well that we decided to put you in early.”

“It’s not legal to do that, so your mom had to make you believe you were older,” said Geoff, then he turned to me and said in a low, scolding voice (one she could hear), “I can’t believe you just blurted it out like that! This is not how we talked about telling her.”

My girl listened with a growing smile on her face as Geoff and I mock-bantered about hiding her age. Finally, she clapped, slow and sarcastic.

“I hope you guys are saving up for all the therapy I’m going to need someday.”

Other parents help their offspring hone socially acceptable skills, but my girl will go far. She has presidential aspirations, and I’m training her well.

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