James has entered full dragon mode. Not the fire-breathing kind—no, this is the hoarding, snarling, treasure-clutching toddler variety. His treasure? Cars. All of them. Every last one. The red one with the missing wheel. The blue one that makes noise if you hit it hard enough. The yellow one that smells faintly of peanut butter. He must hold them. All. At. Once.

He waddles through the house like a mobile scrapyard, arms overflowing, elbows locked in a precarious toddler T-Rex grip. Vehicles spill from his grasp like confetti, but he refuses help. You offer a bin. He growls. You suggest a backpack. He hisses. You dare to touch one? He gasps like you’ve committed vehicular treason.

“NO! I HOLD DEM!” he declares, voice trembling with righteous fury.

Jack tries to help. Jack is immediately banished from the room. Pookie Cat approaches, sniffs a tow truck, and is met with a firm “NO POOKIE!” and a defensive scoot.

James attempts stairs. He drops three cars. He goes back. He retrieves them. He drops two more. He goes back again. This continues for seven minutes. You are late for something now.

At bedtime, he insists the cars sleep with him. You tuck him in. He’s clutching six vehicles like a raccoon guarding snacks. One is under his chin. One is in his armpit. One is somehow inside his pajama pants.

You whisper, “Can I hold one for you?”
He stares.
He says, “I don’t trust you.”

And honestly? Fair.