I know my son is unwell when he cries over small matters, such as not being able to find his true desire: a pink house with a pool in the real estate magazine I gave him. My son, beloved little creature, house-shops at the precious age of four. He is obsessed with real estate magazines, which he eagerly procures from those curbside magazine and newspaper stands in town.
Today, home with a case of strep throat, my son occupied himself quietly while I wrapped up a load of administrative duties at my desk. To reward him, I gave him the latest copy of some grand estate brochure—one that showcases million dollar homes with loads of lush acreage, customized marble flooring, or fancy outdoor kitchens. I no longer look in these magazines myself because they are a form of torture.
Tiny Man slapped the magazine with the back of his hand, complained about the glossy paper being resistant to marker (which he had tried to use to circle his choices), and whined about how he could not believe there was not one pink house in this edition. I tried not to laugh, but couldn’t help myself. Scooping him up, I checked his forehead, carried him upstairs, and tucked him in bed for a nap.
Sweet dreams, little man. And lullabies of pink houses.