Here's what I was going to say, before I was goaded to distraction by my older bother:

[Sure, I meant to say 'brother'.]

Rosie has put me to work as her stenographer to make up her own bedtime stories. Tonight we began a tale about an Irish Frog and a Korean Toad. Who so far have eaten two flies named Thomas and Jojo. Each ate one, though we're vague about who ate whom. I tried to direct the story into an epic about the revolution this caused among the flies against the toads and frogs, requiring a great quest for knowledge about these heroes among the winged insects, including descriptions of mighty battles both external and introspective in which our protagonists were transformed into great peacemaking sages on the order of Ghandi.

But, she would have none of that. Instead she insisted that Thomas and Jojo were nobodies who were eaten and that's that. I was even prepared to compromise and write how they saved themselves with brilliant speeches about how they, as individuals, could assist the two bugeaters to raise all their standard(s) of living by working together.

But, noooo... We have a story about them meeting a squirrel named Gigi, who promptly gets chased up a tree by a dog. She wouldn't even let me have the Irish Frog say, "Begorrah, but that Thomas was tasty!"

For some reason, she decided she was tired and wanted to go to sleep at that point in the story. I wonder if she finds our interactions as funny as I do.