“Look at me. I’m walking like a giant!” My son is taking big, leaping steps around the trampoline. “When I grow up, I’m going to be a giant,” he announces.
“Yes,” he replies with all the conviction his three-year-old self can manage.
“Wow. You’ll be huge then. And you’ll have a to get a really big house to live in and drive a really big car.”
“Uh-huh. And I’ll — no wait. I don’t want to get a different house. I want to live in this house, with you.”
“But what will we do? If you’re a giant you’ll be too tall for this house. Maybe we could cut a hole in the floor and you could go down in the basement and stick you head up through the living room.”
“That’s silly Mommie. Um, Mommie?”
“Are you a giant?”
“No. I’m just a normal size adult.”
“Oh. Well, my Daddy is a giant. And he’s big and strong and he helps me! When I grow up I’m going to be a giant just like him.”