Doctor Daniel Jackson, PhD's in Archeology, Anthropology, and Philology. Yep, he's got all the ologies, well the ones that matter to him, but like all good plans he also has one small problem.

Him.

Yes, he's his own small problem. If he'd only learned to duck the all encompassing beam that de-aged him, he wouldn't have his small problem, and neither would I.

So Daniel is now 3 years old, and I've aged about 20. These knees just weren't made for hauling a kid around, but try telling that to Daniel though. Nope. Here we are in Ikea and the kid wants to walk. Oiy! I suggest a shopping cart; he pouts, crosses his arms and sprouts some diatribe about civil liberties. He's 3 for chrissake! We know he's got some residual memories from his adult life but why do they always surface at the most inopportune moments?

So we negotiate for a few moments, agree to disagree, and I carry him.

It doesn't last long.

Like a worm spotting a hook he's wiggled out of my arms and is bounding down the isle, arms out wide touching everything.

"Fabler!" He says pulling out something that vaguely resembles a frog and waving it at me with a big grin. "Lotsa fablers!"

Not a clue here! Anyone? What's a fabler?

Within moments his arms are full of stuffies and he's still reaching in the basket for more. "Fabler mus, fabler groda, fabler hund."

So there are fabler's flying everywhere. I'm ducking and weaving like a good commando trying to catch them as they're tossed mercilessly from the basket, while my little archeologist excavates for more. "Fabler kat, fabler ko… oh!" Daniel lets out a muffled shout of glee as he tips forward into the basket of stuffies and sinks to the bottom. Dumping my considerable arm full of what ever these things are, I thrust my hand into the basket and start fishing for my kid. One grunt, a muffled "ow" from Daniel, and he rises to the surface and shouts, "Fabler Bjorn!"

What? Sounds Sweedish.

Do'h, we're in Ikea!

"Wasn't he in ABBA?"

Daniel frowns, his little brows knitting together in a familiar 'what the heck?' look he used to give me as an adult. "Nooo, Jack."

"Really? Coulda sworn he was."

With an attention span shorter than a goldfish, Daniel tosses Bjorn in with the other fablers, shrugs, and heads off at sub-light speed to the next basket. "Gosigs!"

"Aww, now what?!" Why can't they just call them soft toys like everyone else does? You need a linguist just to shop in this place.

Wait. I've got one.

"Daniel?"

End