This is either (1) my daughter Lennyn’s response to every agent or publisher who doesn’t see the possibilities of her daddy’s first novel, OR (2) my daughter, Lennyn, telling her daddy which finger hurts. Today, I had to stop everything I was doing, and run to pick her up from preschool because she woke up with throw up all over her. They said she might have gastro-something-itis, and that she might be throwing up all day. When she got home she plopped in front of Curious George, pounded a cupful of grape juice and broke into a candy stash. She’s one tough chic.