Baby Inara listens to death metal; it comforts her. And when I read her the Silmarillion, she giggles herself into hysterics during the battle and betrayal scenes. For example, tonight, during Nirnaeth Arnoediad, the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, she collapsed in hilarity when the dragon squished Azaghal king of the Dwarves, giggled herself silly when the Orcs bridged the stream of Rivil with their countless fallen dead, and squealed with delight as Hurin of the House of Hador hewed off the arms of the troll-guard, wielding a great ax two-handed. The smoking of troll-blood on the blade appears to bring her great joy.
She is clearly my daughter.