I took The Squirrelly to the park. He ran around like a thing wild for 20 minutes, and then, upon the depletion of his very last joule of energy, abruptly transformed into Cranky Frankie.
“Ooooookay,” I said, swinging him onto my shoulder. “I think that’s enough park for one day.” He half-assedly struggled for a bit, squirming until he was horizontal, but then gave up and went limp.
Defeated, he just lay boneless in my arms, alternating between shrieks of anger and insincere sobbing. At that moment a young girl, maybe six, and her mother walked by. The daughter tugged on her mother’s shirt, pointed at The Squirrelly, and said “Mommy, what’s that?”