“Xander, please don’t sit on the dog’s bed,” I chastise you.
“Why?” you demand.
“Because it makes her sad. Look, she’s over there on the floor. Get off of her bed, please.”
“But she said yes, Mom,” you inform me confidently.
“Oh, did she.” I raise an eyebrow.
You nod solemnly, not moving from the dog’s bed. “She did. She shook her head up and down.”
“Mom, you come downstairs with me?” you ask, while we’re out at the Ranch. “You play trains with me?”
“Mama is just going to have a cup of coffee,” I deflect. “Then I’ll come downstairs.”
“Oh.” You move on to harassing the dog, opening every spice jar, trying to take things off the shelves, pleading for more ice cream.
“Xander,” your grandfather says finally, “Why don’t you go downstairs and play with the trains? I can hear them calling you.”
“Okay!” You leap up. “I’M COMING, TRAINS!” you bellow, while your grandparents and I try not to giggle. Then you pause at the top of the stairs. “Mama, those trains are calling you, too.”
After eating enough of your dinner, your grandparents will give you a little ice cream. I have some, too, but I eat a lot more slowly.
“Mama,” you ask me, after wolfing down your own dessert, “I have some of your ice cream?”
“Oh, why?” You are inching closer to me.
“Because you had yours, Xander. This is Mama’s ice cream.”
“Oh.” You consider this for a moment. Then something twigs and you look up at me, beaming, confident you’ve found a solution.
“Mama, I borrow some?”