Noah pulled away from his father’s kiss, wrinkled his tiny nose, and turned toward me with a complaint.
“Mommy!”
I lowered my phone.
“What happened, sweetheart?”
He pointed at Ethan.
“Daddy. Funny.”
Ethan blinked.
“Daddy’s funny?”
Noah shook his head and touched his cheek where the kiss had landed.
I pressed my lips together.
“Did Daddy’s kiss smell funny?”
“Yes!”
My husband looked deeply offended for approximately half a second.
Then Noah pointed toward the hallway.
“Brush, Daddy!”
I burst out laughing.
We had been relaxing in the living room after lunch. Sunlight spilled across the cushions, and Noah sat between us with a little red truck resting on his lap.
At eighteen months old, he was collecting new words every day. Usually, he used them to request bananas, identify passing dogs, or announce that something belonged to him.
This was his first performance review.
Ethan leaned back against the sofa.
“I see. And what exactly have I done wrong?”
Noah wrinkled his nose again.
That answered the question.
On the side table sat an open bag of onion-flavored chips.
Ethan followed my gaze.
“Oh, come on.”
I laughed harder.
He had spent the afternoon telling me those chips were the best snack ever invented. He had offered me one three times.
Apparently, our son disagreed.
“No more kisses until Daddy brushes?” I asked.
Noah nodded.
“Brush.”
Ethan covered his mouth, trying to contain his laughter.
Our little boy watched him closely.
He clearly expected action.
“All right,” Ethan said. “I’ll go.”
Noah lifted one hand toward the hallway.
“Go.”
That was the moment I folded forward, laughing so hard that I couldn’t finish telling Ethan how much I loved him.
He stood with exaggerated dignity.
“I would like it noted that nobody else complained.”
“Nobody else was kissed by the chips.”
“I kissed you earlier.”
“I was being polite.”
He looked back at Noah.
“Your mother has been withholding evidence.”
Noah drove his truck over my knee.
His part in the conversation was apparently complete.
From the bathroom, Ethan called, “Is there an appeal process?”
“No,” I called back.
A small voice beside me added, “No.”
I had to put my phone down before I dropped it.
When Ethan returned, he stopped a respectful distance from the sofa.
“May I approach?”
Noah looked up.
“Daddy brushed his teeth,” I explained.
Ethan crouched beside him and waited.
Noah leaned forward slightly, studying his father’s face. Then he patted Ethan’s cheek.
“Daddy.”
“Still Daddy,” Ethan confirmed.
“Would you like a kiss?” I asked.
Noah turned his cheek toward him.
Ethan gave him a quick kiss.
We waited.
Noah smiled.
My husband threw both hands into the air.
“Approved!”
The sudden celebration delighted our son. He clapped, dropped his truck, and immediately wanted Ethan to retrieve it.
Within seconds, the inspection had been forgotten.
At least, that was what we thought.
Later that afternoon, Ethan settled on the rug to build a block tower with him.
Noah handed him blocks one at a time.
A yellow block.
A blue block.
Another yellow block, which apparently belonged somewhere very specific.
When the tower toppled, Noah squealed with laughter. Ethan leaned forward to kiss his forehead.
Our son paused.
His nose wrinkled.
Ethan froze.
“I passed already.”
Noah considered him.
Then he leaned into the kiss.
I watched from the armchair.
“Looks like you’re subject to spot checks.”
“This household used to have fewer regulations.”
“You used to eat fewer onion chips.”
“That is completely untrue.”
By dinner, Ethan had told the story to his mother.
He put the call on speaker while Noah sat in his high chair.
“Your grandson has suspended my kissing privileges.”
His mother laughed.
“What did you do?”
“I ate a snack.”
“What snack?”
There was a pause.
Then she said, “Well, I’m with Noah.”
Ethan looked at the phone.
“I called for support.”
“You called the wrong person.”
Noah heard his name and held up a piece of pasta.
“More?”
The conversation moved immediately to more important matters.
That evening, Ethan carried him upstairs for bath time. I could hear splashing, laughter, and my husband making increasingly ridiculous boat noises.
When Noah emerged wrapped in his towel, he rested his head against Ethan’s shoulder.
There was no inspection.
Just a tired little boy holding tightly to his father.
I helped with his pajamas while Ethan found the book Noah wanted.
We read it twice.
Then a third time, because Noah opened it again before we could put it away.
At bedtime, Ethan leaned beside the cot.
“Kiss?”
Noah reached for him.
My husband looked back at me with a triumphant smile.
I whispered, “Congratulations on your reinstatement.”
He whispered back, “I’m going to put it on my résumé.”
The next day, the joke followed us into the kitchen.
Ethan reached into the cupboard for his favorite chips.
I raised an eyebrow.
He looked at the bag.
Then at Noah, who was busy trying to put a spoon inside his toy truck.
Slowly, Ethan chose something else.
I said nothing.
“You’re smiling,” he told me.
“I know.”
A few days later, he came home from work and crouched in the hallway.
Noah hurried toward him, arms lifted.
Ethan gathered him up.
Before the kiss, our son pointed down the hall.
“Brush!”
My husband stared at him.
“I haven’t had any chips.”
Noah kept pointing.
I leaned against the doorway, laughing.
“He remembers the procedure.”
Ethan kissed the top of Noah’s hair instead, with our son happily tucked against him.
Then he looked at me.
“I’m beginning to think he just enjoys sending me places.”
That was possible.
Noah had recently discovered that grown-ups sometimes did what he asked. It was fascinating news.
Still, Ethan brushed before bedtime.
And when he offered another kiss, Noah accepted it with a grin.
I haven’t told my husband he’s been fired from kissing duty.
Our little supervisor seems perfectly happy to keep him on staff.
The job simply comes with inspections now.
