Sam wondered into my room, looking concerned.
“Mommy, Lydia play slide,” he tells me.
“What do you mean by ‘play slide?’ ” I ask.
“Like this,” he answers, and he makes a motion with his hands like its sliding.
“I’ll go check.”
“I came to tell you. I not doing it,” Sam clarifies as we go down the hall.
It turns out Lydia was trying to reposition Sam’s train table to engineer a slide. “But it will be fun!” she laments when I tell her to put it back.