Before we go to sleep most nights, if we get to bed before midnight, I read Tage a book or tell him a story. Last night it was a story, since the lights were already off before he remembered to ask and it seemed too much hassle to mess around with a book. I asked him what kind of story he wanted, but he had a bit of a hard time deciding.

“Not a robot story,” he said. “Not Batman, not Spiderman.”

“How about Handy Manny?” I suggested, naming one of his recent Playhouse Disney favorites.

“Yes,” he agreed. “Handy Manny.”

“One day,” I began, “Handy Manny was sitting in his kitchen eating lunch when his mom called. ‘Oh, Manny!’ she said, ‘my faucet is shooting water out all over the place and it’s a big mess! I need you to come fix it!'”

“Handy Manny doesn’t have a mom. He’s a grown-up.”

“Grown-ups can still have moms, Tage. I have a mom. Dad has a mom.”

“I know, but Handy Manny doesn’t have a mom.”

“Okay,” I said. “One day Handy Manny was in his kitchen eating his lunch when his neighbor called and said, ‘Manny, I need your help with my faucet!'”

“Mom, Handy Manny doesn’t have a neighbor.”

“He doesn’t have a neighbor? How about friends? Does he have any friends?”

“No, he only has tools. No friends, no neighbors.”

“All right, then.” I took a deep breath. “One day, Handy Manny was sitting in his kitchen eating his lunch when water started shooting out of his faucet. He put his sandwich down, picked up his toolbox and rushed over to the sink …”

“Handy Manny doesn’t eat sandwiches. He has books. Tools and books.”

“One day, Handy Manny was sitting on his couch reading a book when water started shooting out of his faucet,” I said, this time through gritted teeth.

“He doesn’t have a couch. He has chairs,” Disapproval was plain in his voice now, and I think I’m glad I couldn’t see the expression on his face as he said resignedly, “You don’t know how it is.”

Then, apparently fed up with my ignorance, he rolled over and went to sleep.