We explained the concept of fire to Barney’s Biggest Fan last night. She may never forgive us.

The Southern California temperature had dipped to an intolerably frigid 60 degrees and I thought it was a good time to clear the cobwebs from the fireplace and spark up a Duraflame log, lest my family and I be reduced to putting on long sleeves. Not 30 seconds after I set the log alight, Barney’s Biggest Fan ambled over to the brick fireplace in our living room and gazed into the flames.

You know what came next: she moved purposefully toward the flames, clearly wanting to touch them like Peter Gabriel told her to (“I wanna touch the light, the heat I see in your eyes.”).

The situation was completely under control. I was going to let her get close enough to the fire to feel the heat and then tell her that the feeling is called “hot” and that’s why we don’t get too close to fire. But when Hot Wife entered the room and saw our daughter close enough to the fire to be cast in an orangey glow (but not close enough to, say, make a s’more), she freaked.

“Honey! No! Hot!” Hot Wife said. She then threw me a disdainful look that told me unequivocally that any hope I may have had for holiday nookie was as dead as William Howard Taft.

So we went with The China Palace Approach – yelling monosyllabic words at the child as if she were deaf, just like my father-in-law yells “Sweet and Sour Chicken!” at the waiter at China Palace, believing that the man will better understand English if it is hollered at the top of an American man’s lungs.

We asked her if she understood.

“Yes,” she said. “Hot. Hot.”

She then turned and marched straight toward the fireplace again.

“Noooooooo,” I said. “Hot. That’s fire. Hot. No touching.”

“Hot,” she parroted back. “No. Hot.”

She then turned and marched straight toward the fireplace again.

At this point, given my extensive parenting experience, college education and spectacular command of the obvious, I could see that The China Palace Approach wasn’t getting through to the child (I do provide parenting consultations on the side. Call me.). It was time to provide a more visual lesson.

I marched over to the toy box, fished for the stuffed Barney doll – my daugher’s holy grail – and returned with the little dinosaur. Without a word, I held Barney up to my daughter’s face and then tossed the little fucker into the fireplace. The asbestos-stuffed dinosaur burst into flames and vanished faster than a pack of clove cigarettes at a senior prom. I then turned to my daughter.

“See?” I asked. “Hot. Fire. No touching.”