You are not my best friend

So says my three-year-old son as he stomps up the stairs. “Don’t follow me,” he adds, in his curt toddler tone, just in case I thought there was any chance of getting back in his good graces.

For the life of me I can’t remember what precipitated this exchange. Maybe I took a toy, or offered the wrong toy, or asked him to pick up a toy himself?  

It doesn’t matter. Within seconds he’s back at the top of the stairs, calling my name, eager to hug and kiss and make up. 

Having small children is sort of like dating in middle school. Everyone’s hormones are out of control and nobody knows what they really want, except that they all want someone to love them.

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