I am whupped, and bedtime starts just as soon as the sheets finish in the dryer, so I am laying down for a minute with my phone.

Samantha appears at my feet, on the verge of tears, seriously distraught, “MAMA! Jack thinks that my seashell is his! My seashell that I found at the beach! My special seashell that I found! And he thinks it’s his, and it isn’t, it’s mine!”

I can’t help but point out, “Samantha, you’ve never been to a beach.”

She’s six. She channels teenage valley girls. “Oh, I have!”

She doesn’t understand why this makes me laugh, but she stops to think about it, and then issues a hesitant challenge, “So, if I’ve never been to the beach, how did I get it?”

“It’s my seashell.” I used to live on the coast.

“Oh. But you lended it to me, right?”

“I let you play with it.”

“Right. Then make him give it back!”

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