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I parrot-perch my daughter onto the edge of my knees and begin wrestling her ten tiny fingers so I can trim her nails. Squirming and worming all over my lap she yelps at me, “Daddy, EASY!”

“I know, sweetheart, you don’t like this, but we have to trim them so we don’t cut your little sister.”

“Hee-Hee,” she smirks. Deep down, I know that smirk…it’s mine, reinvented. Reincarnated in a 28 month old devil-in-disguise. I pinch her little index finger, lower the nail clippers ever-so-slowly, and ‘snip.’ One nail done, nine to go. I roll her middle finger between my index finger and thumb and proudly ask, “Finger number two, are you here?” “Yup,” Maggie yelps. We continue, ‘snip.’ A few more snips, giggles, tickles and ‘Careful Daddys’ and we stroll to the kitchen for the bribe related Oreo treat.

“Like this, Daddy?” She asks while trying to pull apart the Oreo. An Oreo Earthquake rattled between Maggie’s fingers and cookie spewed itself all over the floor, the table and underneath what of Maggie’s fingernails were left. At that very moment, the cat began forming his own search and rescue party for all surviving crumbs.

“Well, Maggie, here…let me show you. Take one side and hold it like this.” I show her how each finger is placed all the way around the cookie.

“Daddy, your hand bigger,” Maggie says.

“I know, sweetheart, it’s ok. Now take your other hand and twist the cookie reeeeeeeeaaaal slow…and…..Bingo!”

“Ok, Daddy, I try?” “Sure, honey,” I say. She places all five fingers around the Oreo, pulls and “BAM,” explodes another Oreo. She laughs, I laugh and we stare in joy at the mess we’re making of the kitchen table…together.

“I have an idea,” I say. “Let’s start an Oreo Dunking Train. Watch. Daddy will line up three Oreos, we dunk one, eat it, and do the same with the other two. How does that sound Mags?” Maggie has a few nicknames and she likes ‘Mags.’ Other nicknames include Scout (her middle name,) ‘That one’ (because our youngest is ‘This One’) and Mags. ‘K,’ says toddler of few words, transfixed by the train idea. Eyes peeled, we count out three Oreos together. “One, two, three,” counts proud daughter.

“Now, the secret to dunking an Oreo is keeping the cookie in the milk until all the bubbles disappear. Now watch, once I put the cookie in the milk, little bubbles will pop up. Once those bubble stop, pull up the cookie and it will be nice and soft. Okay? ‘K,’ says bubble-curious toddler. Down goes cookie one, ‘Bubbles, Daddy!” She says.

“Yes, ma’am. Cool, huh?” I say.

“Okay, bubbles are done—pull the cookie up now.” “Ew, squishy daddy.”

“I know, I know, eat it now.” I say.

“K,” She smiles. As she puts it in her mouth, her eyes speak uneasy to me, but her tongue loves it in all its squishy goodness. After smiling from ear to ear, she asks, “Daddy, ‘nother one?”

“Sure, sweetheart.” I give her a kiss on her forehead and watch her revel in her newest joy of life—the Oreo. Watching Maggie gulp down the last two Oreos made me realize a child is inherently happy ‘just because.’ She doesn’t need limitless amounts of inherited money. She doesn’t need a shirt from Ralph Lauren nor does she need an oversized mattress on which to spread out. She needs nothing more than cylinder-shaped fake chocolate discs to twirl and inhale at will. To have that life, to live that moment, with memory, is forever priceless.

“It’s so hard to hide the kid inside—O-R-E-O.”