When my four-year-old gets mad, he wets his pants. He thinks that if he has a temper tantrum about having to wear shoes, I’ll forget about him eating all the toothpaste in the house.

A four-year-old lives in a world of his own, and from time to time, the outside world does intrude.

We don’t eat all the toothpaste, we don’t throw our milk across the table, and we wear shoes.

Are we seriously going to buy the ticket Trump is selling as a guided tour down the rabbit hole. Are we seriously going to forget that over a hundred-thousand Americans are dead, and by his indifference to our very existence, he has exacerbated the inherent chaos of our lives to such an extent, he gets away with ignoring our grief.

My son puts his blankey over his head and informs us he is invisible. It’s true if he says it’s true.

I can and I do wait him out. There is a difference between my son and Donald Trump. My son knows how to love. His ability to love me so hard makes me want to weep.

We still don’t eat all the toothpaste. We still don’t throw our milk across the table.

And we still wear shoes.

Whether we like it or not.

We went to a virtual funeral, and I had my son brush his hair, and wear nice clothes. I let him sit on my lap so everyone could see him. He waved and laughed and went back to playing with his toy cars on the floor. He brought life to adults in extraordinary pain.

He planted kisses on a computer screen. He never asks if we love him because he knows.