Last night, Reid and I were cuddling in bed, talking about our day. I asked him whether he had fun sledding, and playing with Grandpa. Then I asked him if he knows who Grandpa is.

“Your daddy,” he replied. “Right,” I told him. Then I described how, when I was three, I would snuggle with my daddy the same way Reid was snuggling with me.

“And, someday, when you have kids, I will be their grammy.” Which is hilarious. “And you will be their daddy.” Which is even more hilarious.

Then I asked Reid, “When you have babies, what will you name them?”

He replied, without missing a beat, “Byron, Icarus and Perseus.”

So, seriously, even in the next generation I’m not getting a girl?

Anyway, he just woke up and I asked him (as I always do), “What did you dream about?”

“Darth Vader was chasing me.”

“Oh no! Were you scared?”

“No.”

“Really? I would have been scared.”

“Grandpa was holding my hand.”

Then he rode his bike home. That was two miles.

As soon as he got home he ran around the block — only .2 of a mile, but I figured one lap was enough.

His stomach hurt, but I kid you not, he wasn’t even breathing hard.

His Grandpa told me that he’d make a good Marine.

Nope, I’ve told all three boys that they are forbidden from pursuing any career which would lead to people shooting at them. So that knocks out anything in the armed forces, as well as police officer, security guard, border patrol and working for the post office.

Grandpa, “So the wolf huffed and puffed and huffed and puffed but he couldn’t blow the brick house down. Do you know what happened next, Aidan?”

Three-year-old Aidan, “I turned into the Black Power Ranger and killed the wolf.”