The voices rise from the backseat, Sunday night, after a long drive and a longer day.
"Mom! She keeps hitting me!"
"I am not hitting. I am just violently touching him."
Today, after I told the three-year-old not to touch anything. (He had just finished a few Cheetos and had very orange fingers). I found an open drawer and reminded him that I'd asked him not to touch anything.
"I made a fist," he tells me, "like this." He shows me the fist.
"Then I used the side of my fist to pull the handle. Like this. I didn't touch it."
I try not to laugh but smile. "Actually, that was pretty smart," I say. "But I still don't want you opening that drawer." I shake my head. "You are a smart kid."
He nods. "Sometimes."