The son has this phase now. You know, this phase where he competes with everyone.
“I’m bigger than you!”
“No, dumpling, you’re not.”
“But almost…”, he says staying on his toes and hiding his face in my shirt.
Well… it’s normal, I guess. Often though, it get’s a little absurd…
“…eight, nine, ten.”
We’re in bed. The son counts my fingers.
“You have ten fingers.”, he states.
“Thank you, captain obvious.”, I answer.
He looks at his hands.
“I have more fingers than you.”, he says.
“No, dumpling, you have not.”
“I so do!”, he screams.
“One, two, three, elven, twelve, thirteen!”, he counts his fingers purposely wrong.
“THIRTEEN!”, he yells.
“Yeah, yeah,…”, I’m too tired to argue.
Satisfied with his victory he picks up the book from next to the bed and says in a calm voice:
“And now we read Litchat Scabby (≈ Richard Scarry).”