After a day frolicking in the park with my friend and her four-year-old son, we chowed on our respective poisons. For the boy, a 7-11 Sponge Bob slushee. For us adult types, 31 Flavors sundaes. We then retired to the vehicle to drive home. Maybe it was the sugar rush afterglow or the shifting late afternoon sunlight, but the young lad became reflective and launched into a somber carseat monologue.
"Sometimes, I get cranky and frustrated and I'll throw things at someone and be mad and then I'll feel sad to them."
"Then do you say you're sorry?" I asked, twisting my head to peer around the passenger seat's shoulder.
"Yes," he murmured, squinting slightly. "Then I say I'm sorry and I say a whole bunch of nice things to them."
"That's an important thing to do," I replied, feeling all Coach Carter and ish. Then the tow-headed tot Little Man Tate'd me:
"Yes, that's the most important-nist part of being a friend."