Like many offspring, one of Kit’s favourite activities is pretending to help. It’s not that he is inherently unhelpful, but he is so tiny that it can sometimes be difficult for him to assist in a physical way.
Fortunately, Kit is great at moral support (and God knows my morals need all the support they can get). He celebrates every win, no matter how small, in the hopes of celebratory food and drink. He leaps and dances, whoops and cheers, and offers high fours (his competitive spirit inspired him to point out that they are superior to those of a sloth, who can only manage high threes).
Kit loves to share. He especially loves sharing other people’s things. Well, generally my things because that’s what mothers do! If I want to eat junk food, Kit is always happy to help. But, he’s not so keen on sharing anything that makes its way to his stockpile of treasures under his bed; like his favourite smelly clothes that he doesn’t want to be parted with( even to wash), beer caps, chocolate that he pilfered from me, and the ubiquitous dead beetles (he thinks I don’t know about them; but really it is he who doesn’t know about vacuuming under the bed).
When I told Kit he has a congenital aversion to sharing, he replied, “I don’t get it. Isn’t ‘congenital’ conjoined twins who only need one pair of knickers?”
“An interesting extrapolation, but, no. It means ‘from birth,’” I answered. “In fact it’s lucky you’re an only child,” I went on, “No siblings to share things with.”
“You’re weird having an only child,” he said, “And in quite a lot of other ways, but I don’t have time to get into those. Most humans I know think that people should have more than one child. People say, “You can’t make them an only child. That’s cruel! But I’m glad I’m an only child. I don’t want to share your resources and attention with some annoying little ankle-biter.”
“Annoying little ankle-biter, yourself!” I teased.
“Touché!” he replied.
“Ow!” I exclaimed as he lived up to that designation, and scurried away before I could catch him.