“Bear, we have to go inside.”
My son pulls at my hand. His tug is insistent, surprisingly strong for someone who isn’t yet two; when I refuse to comply, he pulls harder, his legs in a textbook tug-of-war stance. I counter his weight with one hand as multiple Target bags hang from the other. I do not have the wherewithal to make the walk around the block that we often do after coming home.
Nor do I have the time. It’s almost 4.30, and we have a date. After struggling for a few moments, I pull out my ace:
“Yei-Yei and Nai-Nai want to talk to you.”
Suddenly his arm goes slack. He drops my hand and runs to the front door, patting it insistently as I fumble for my keys. We enter the house and I fetch my laptop. As I sign onto Skype, he claps his hands and looks eagerly at the screen.