Because whatever oh, so important thing I was doing--cooking supper, folding laundry, making sure the baby didn't topple off the couch--was obviously a far second in importance to whatever crisis had arisen in 3-year-old land.
I need my real wings.
Excuse me? What?
I was unaware he had fake wings, let alone real ones.
I. Need. My. Real. Wings.
Okay...why do you need wings?
You have to go buy me some so I can fly. Outside.
Sometimes, life really is that simple.