Joe falls or bumps something or trips on one of his 47 cars or any part of his growing body and bumps something, cries.

Me: Do you want me to kiss and make it better?

Joe takes this literally, like his Dad does most things. He looks at me like I’ve said the creepiest, most ridiculous, randomest, most insulting thing a human could say, as if he knows that a band-aid, or neosporin or a doctor or just in fact to wait it out might make it better, and that a ‘kiss’ would do literally nothing to make it ‘better.’

Joe: ….No.