Alex slammed the door open and ran into the house as if the air itself, outside, was aflame.
“Ho-hold it there, mister,” his mother, Jessica, shouted. The 8 year old skidded to a stop.
“What are you doing rushing through the door like that?” she asked.
Alex’s face was one of indignation and frustration, and soon accompanied by the usual huff, and slack shoulder, “Oh mom!” he said.
Mother pointed at the door, “Go out there and come back in the house like a good boy, and shut it behind you; we don’t live in a barn,”
Stomping ensued, amidst incoherent child-cursing, as Alex reentered the house, gently closing the door, then began to dance.
Jessica was a little taken aback by her child’s fancy foot-work, and had to stand there mute, as the boy hopped from one foot to the next, spinning on a heel, arms flapping in rhythm.
“Can I go, now, mommy?” Alex asked, his face pleading, his feet moving, poised with tap-dancing excellence.
“Where did you learn how to dance like that?” Mother asked.
“Mommy, I have to pee!”

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