I know I’m not (to borrow from Star Trek) boldly going where no man has gone before with this blog, but today deserves a post centered on his favorite word: “mine,” a word that has (thank you, Mom) quickly become his favorite.

Hey, I’m an enlightened parent, I totally appreciate the fact that he now has a concept of what his possessions are, but the pitfalls lie in where his stuff stops, and sharing starts.  Tell him to share – sure, he’ll even say “share” and nod his little head, but he’ll also give you a look like you ain’t the sharpest tool in the shed, and maybe this sharing thing is overrated, so why bother?

It’s all we can do to strip him before bath-time.  He’ll protest at full volume about “my shirt” or “my paji” (Korean for pants), even “my diaper,” which he’ll then clutch to his chest as if we (his doting, loving parents, lest any readers forget) will steal those items for our personal use.  So what did I do?  What any rational almost-40 yuppie father would do, I think: I tried to reason with him.  Well… that worked about as well as the Titanic’s waterproofing.  “I know, Ryan, they are your pants, but you can’t have mogyok (Korean for bath) or ttako-ttako (Korean for wash-wash) with your clothes on.  You feel me, little man?”  At which point he pulled the pants back and said, “No, mine!”

Driving back from my mother’s house recently, he took umbrage at my wife kissing his knee.  She would kiss his knee or his hand, and this is a boy who won’t even let one of us touch his car seat – why? – because it’s his.  He would protest “no, mine,” and pull the kissed hand/knee/arm/leg away.  He then kissed kiss his own hand or knee, as if only he is allowed to kiss one of his body parts.  It got past the point of ludicrous when my wife kissed his cheek, he said “no, mine,” then kissed his hand and slapped his cheek.  By then, thankfully, we were almost home, saving Master Ryan from more kisses from his mother and the resultant self-flagellation.


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