My little girl has had it up to here with playoff hockey.

Poor kid. I don't blame her.

In the Canadiens' best season in years, her father has been commandeering the television set more often than he used to, and she has had it up to here with hockey.

'Hockey is poo-pooey,' she spat Wednesday night, as I changed the channel from Treehouse to RDS just in time to catch Ste. Anne de Bellevue native Benoit Brunet say the Canadiens needed more offense out of their power play while rocking some cool new glasses.

This, of course, annoyed my daughter immensely, because she was right in the middle of a Wonder Pets episode – the one where the Wonder Pets save a baby animal in trouble – and let me know that she disapproved in the loudest way possible.

I have grown fairly accustomed to my daughter's crying fits (as has my brother-in-law, who asks her if she's hurt whenever she goes off on a crying jag. Of course, she's usually not, and his just asking annoys her enormously and makes me have to hide my laughter behind my hand) and I've gotten more and more comfortable telling her, 'Too bad. Hockey game's on.'

With the nice weather, we spend more and more time outside, so it's easy to get her attention away from the boob tube and on to other things, like making mud in her sandbox and swinging on her swingset, or riding her bike (with training wheels, a helmet and three feet of bubble wrap protecting her from falls.), but when Daddy makes a beeline for the TV at 7:05 p.m., she's there at 7:06, wanting to watch 'her show' and not 'Daddy's show.' For the record, 'her show' is defined as any presentation that entails animation, and 'Daddy's show' is defined as, roughly, everything else.

So, when it's a Canadiens playoff game night, she's got to head upstairs and watch a little TV in our bedroom.

I could take my act to a bar, or a tavern, and watch it with friends, but that would imply I actually have friends. Plus, it would cost me more money and force me to leave the house, both of which aren't things I love doing.

So, there's not really any fight, just me wishing I could see a Stanley Cup victory, like my father's generation could, and eventually, did.

Of course, some of the Canadiens' recent play has got me agreeing that hockey (at least whatever they call they call that dreck they've put on display) actually is 'poo-pooey.'

She's sage, my daughter.