Thread by @hradzka

*last night*

MOOSE. “Daddy, can you [*clatter*] help me with the stepstool? Oh wait. I got it!”
MOOSE. *traipses for his room, carrying stepstool*
ME.

ME. “What’re you doing, buddy?”
MOOSE, trying in vain to hold door shut. “I do not want to tell you.”
ME. “Well, bad news; I’m the safety officer.”
MOOSE. “What’s ‘safety officer?’”
ME. “Means I keep you safe. What’re you trying to get?”
MOOSE. *silence*

ME. “Did you want the stepstool to get… um. The travel chess set?”
MOOSE. “No.”
ME. “The magnets.”
MOOSE. “Those aren’t magnets.”
ME. “Okay. Um, a book?”
MOOSE. “No.”
ME. “Just tell me what it is.”
MOOSE, sullen. “I don’t want to.”

ME. “You’re supposed to be picking out tomorrow’s shirt so you can have your bath. Just tell me what you want; I won’t be mad. The worst that can happen is I’ll say you can’t do it.”
MOOSE. “…”
MOOSE. *points at ceiling*
ME. *looks*
TOMORROW’S SHIRT. *dangles from ceiling fan*

tweeps: I disintegrated into helpless laughter for a good two minutes

before I could gently explain to Moose that a stepstool giving him maybe eight extra inches of height would not be sufficient to retrieve his shirt that was dangling from the ceiling fan

I lifted him up, he got the shirt, we dusted it off, and I announced a new house rule that throwing shirts onto ceiling fans was not permitted.

Kids, man. Love ‘em.