Mommy’s Handcuffs and Whipped Cream

We’re walking through SuperTarget when I realize Tyler is carrying a pair of handcuffs.

“Dude, what in the world? Put those back please,” I said. “Where’d you find them?”

“They’re yours, Mom. I found them in your room, in that bag of gifts from your wedding shower.”

(I’ll give you a moment to let that sink in.)

“Mom, it’s so cool. There’s all kinds of toys in there from your friends.”

(I’m mentally racking my brain. What did he find? WHAT DID HE FIND??)

“And everything’s brand new, never even used.  So can I have these, Mom?” He holds the handcuffs up for me to see.

“No. You can’t.”

“Why not? Why do you need them?” He coupled this question with pointed, potent eye contact.

“Never mind. You can have them.”

“What about the light-up hula hoop? Can I have that?”

(I want this conversation to end now, please.)

“You can… borrow it. But the plastic wrap and chocolate syrup are mine.”

If you need my son, he’s in the backyard bossing around an imaginary circle of circus lions with his new leather whip.