This morning, my son woke up, sat up, and declared: "I don't want to be three anymore. I'm going to be four tomorrow."
I explained that requires a birthday. He was unmoved. "Then we'll have a birthday today."
And so begins the reign of the small dictator. The toast must be triangles, not rectangles. Juice must be in the blue cup. The bedtime story must be the bunny one β again.
I used to fight it. But lately I see it differently. This fierce insistence on how things should be β it's the purest form of agency they have. In a world where they control almost nothing, controlling the shape of the toast is an act of sovereignty.
So I let him have it. The toast is triangular. We read the bunny. And for one more day, he is the emperor of his small universe, and time bends to his will.