“Mama,” he pleads, “Where is Dada?”
“Dada is at work.”
“Noooooo,” he whines, “I don’t WIKE work.”
He started to collapse, melting into the floor, so I swooped him up into my arms. Immediately, he started crying harder.
“NOOOOO,” he cried, “I don’t WIKE up!”
“Oh. I’m sorry,” I replied, setting him back on his feet.
A moment went by. A pause. A breath of air.
“Mama. I want UP pwease. I wike up!”
So I picked him up, cuddled him, kissed him on the forehead, and took a deep breath. That’s just life with a three year old.