It’s January. We’re 9 months in. He reaches for the tissue box and looks back at me, already aware that I’m gonna say “No.” I’m trying to remember what the parenting books tell me I’m supposed to do in this situation: set a boundary? Or let him explore? I can’t remember, so I tell him, “Ok, one time, so you can get it out of your system.”

And he pulls those tissues out with such gusto. It’s like he’s been waiting his entire life for this moment, which, quite possibly, he has. And he’s waving them around like a little mini modern dancer and then he starts tearing one apart and I hide the rest, then I hide all of the tiny pieces when he’s done so that he doesn’t eat them, but all the while I’m starting to worry: does this mean he’s gonna grow up to be a…