I was wrestling with my two year-old son. He was climbing all over me. Squeezing my face. Tickling me. Standing on my chest. Throwing himself onto my head. Then he stopped. Frowned. Pointed at my chest.
“Ew,” he said. “Yucky! What dat?”
I looked. I saw. “That’s your booger, Charlie. Your giant booger on my sweater,” I said. “Not mine. Yours.”
“Yucky,” he said, as if it was my fault. “Throw booger away, Daddy!”
In moments like this, I remind myself that he has never peed on my once while I was changing his diaper.
Small stuff, but it matters a lot.