In which a two-year-old confronts the cruelty of this world with much moaning and thrashing about
We took a bus ride, and it ended.
We watched a movie, and it ended.
We ate a shave ice ("snow cone" to you non-Hawaii people), and then it was gone.
The Y-shaped strap of his slipper ("flip-flop" to you non-Hawaii people) was inserted between the first and second toes, not his preferred position, between the second and third toes.
I cut his pasta.
I removed his filthy, pee-soaked, firetruck-bedecked pants.
I refused to carry him five steps to the door.
Dad tried to drive Mom's car.
Mom tried to wear Dad's glasses.
The yellow Play-Doh mixed, irrevocably, with the blue.
Mr. Potato Head's second ear was, and still is, nowhere to be found.
