“Read five books. No milk.”
H lobs the opening offer in our pre-nap negotiations over how many books to read and the location and manner in which to read them. No milk is an unusual request from him. I make a mental note of it.
“We have time for two books, sweet pea. Let’s pick them out together,” I counteroffer.
We sit down on the floor in front of a stack of library books.
“One, two, three, read all of these,” he says, fanning four books off the pile.
“We have time for two books, sweetness. How about these?” I hold up two of the books, Chicken Soup with Rice and Pierre, that he pulled from the pile.
“And this one and this one,” he says, gesturing emphatically toward the other two, Global Babies and Where is Baby’s Belly Button.
“Okay, sweets, we’ll compromise. We’ll read Global Babies, too. Three books,” I tell him, placing them on the bed.
In response, he picks up Where is Baby’s Belly Button and throws it after the other three.
“Compromise this one!” he says decisively.
Well. How could I argue with that? Four books it is, with milk. I did not know how many books we would end up reading, but I had little doubt there would be milk. There always is.