So I step on something hard in the middle of the hall and emphatically do not curse (at least for the purposes of this story).
I look down and see half a crayon. I kick it out of the way and notice another half crayon near—but not in—the trash can. I walk out towards the living room, limping slightly, because crayons are far harder than you'd think and also because I crave sympathy or at least a bit of drama. I notice another half crayon near the front door, and some crayon powder nearby. I look at the 3-year-old happily sitting in the sun on the front stoop.
"Hey," I say. "Are you breaking crayons in half?"
He looks up at me. "Yes," he says softly.
This throws me. I'm not used to honesty, other than when people tell me how I look. "Well," I say, thinking quickly. "Don't do that anymore."
Having thus dispensed my daily Mike Brady-like fatherly wisdom, I look over at the 11-year-old. "Why would he do that?" I ask, shaking my head. "Why would someone break crayons in half? What was he thinking?"
"Well," the Bean replies. "It goes back to The Great Crayon-Pencil War of 1953. There was a dispute over territory and one thing led to another and when the battle lines were drawn, he felt he simply had no choice but to side with the pencils."
My mouth drops open. She smiles. "Can I have the leftover cheesecake for lunch?"
[She later reported the cheesecake was delicious.]