If you’re trying to make me cry, son, you’ve picked a good week for it.

I.

Henry: Do you want to see my happy dance?

Me: Lay it on me, boy!

He holds up one arm like he’s Dracula hiding behind his cape, and then waves the other hand in the air, like he’s Dracula trying to get someone’s attention. At the same time, he sticks his tongue out and rolls his eyes comically, gets up on his toes, and twirls around and around and around. It is, for lack of a better word, spazzy. I clap and clap. Finally he slows down and then stops, panting.

Me: Don’t stop now!

Henry (shrugging): That’s all I have. I have no more dance left.

II.

Henry (eyes filled with tears): My Stormtrooper is lost.

Me (rummaging through one of 10,000 piles): I know it's here somewhere.

Henry (lower lip quivering): No. It’s gone. And there will be no Christmas.

Me: No Christmas? Don’t say it!

Henry (voice cracking): And Santa won’t come. And there will be no presents.

Me (also beginning to choke up): But why?

Henry (casually): Because it’s not time yet.