> While trying to get him dressed, I say, "Tate, do you know who loves you? Me."
"No!" he shouts before smacking me in the face. "I love YOU!" Such loving anger.
> Tate pretty much runs this house. Whenever he's playing or distracted, I try to sneak away and have some quiet time. But the second he realizes I'm gone, he'll track me down, wherever I'm hiding. If I'm in my room watching TV, he'll barge in and demand that I change the station to something he wants to watch. Lately, however, he's been allowing me some concessions...kind of. Sometimes he'll say things like, "Dad, I want to watch the Jazz." This would be nice if it were ever when the Jazz were playing. I'll respond, "That's nice, buddy, but it's 8:00 in the morning." Or he'll say, "I want to watch the Broncos." "Sorry, buddy, the Broncos don't play again until August." These responses are never good enough. "I want to watch the Broncos. RIGHT NOW!" I just can't win.
> Speaking of TV, here's another common trick of Tate's. I'll be lying on the bed, watching TV. He'll put a pillow on my head, sit on the pillow, and then declare triumphantly, "Dad, you can't see your show!"
My birthday is tomorrow. A couple of days ago, out of the blue, Curtis ran upstairs and into his bedroom. When he came back, he said, "Here, Dad. It's an early birthday present." He dropped 47 cents into my palm and then ran off again.
Paige and I have been watching the Olympics together the past few nights. Thanks to her patriotism and steel-trap memory, she delivers comments like, "Come on Shiffrin, you need to defend your title" and "I'm so excited that Maddie Bowman won the first-ever gold in women's ski halfpipe." Sure you are, Paige. Sure you are.