the options are: milk fight or dinosaur battle

My 3-year old daughter gets a jug of milk out of the fridge to pour a glass. But I say no because she’s sick. “We don’t drink milk when we’re sick, darling.”

I put it back in the fridge. She smiles at me and says, “I’m gonna get that milk myself !”

Now I have two options: fight, or play.

I get down on the ground on all fours and say, “Not if you can’t pass me! I’m a dinosaur!”

I take three big “stomps” toward her. This is resonating with her. She’s all in. She squeezes her fists, and smiles so that her eyes become like almond slivers. She is delighted and scared at the same time. But perhaps she knows that it’s not the kind of scared where there’s real danger, but the kind where you know you’re safe.

When I am one stomp’s worth away from her, she charges at me unexpectedly, which takes me of guard. I rear up to brace myself. Her little head crashes into my chest. We laugh and laugh while the milk lies forgotten in the fridge.