Four-year-old children are aliens.

Daughter: Daddy, my finger hurts. I think I need to see the doctor.
Me: Where does it hurt?
Daughter (points to finger): Here.
Me: Does it hurt now?
Daughter: No.
Me: What do you do to make it hurt?

And now, imagine the most bizarre way you could possibly contort your hand and fingers. Got it? Okay. Her fingers were not contorted in that way. Hers were arranged into a shape ten times more bizarre than what you just imagined. And that is why four-year-olds are aliens.

Me: Don't do that, kid. Daughter: Ok, Daddy.