When Fiver was three, he came up to the altar on Ash Wednesday and, thanks to his speech problem, yelled, "I don't want those ass*es on my head!"
This year, even though she's only two, Sally came up to the altar on Ash Wednesday and, with a look of mute terror, turned tail and RAN AWAY. This kid wanted no part of anything being put on her head, so she beat feet out of there. Father just chuckled, gave me my ashes, and then released me to go chase her down.
What is this kid going to do in a couple of years? Slug the person administering ashes?