I was feeling extra maternal as I tucked Shef, super sleepy and cuddly, into bed last night. "Oh, Shef, you’re just a great kid," I said.

"No, I'm not," he said earnestly, "I’m bad."

"You’re not bad," I said, arm around his neck.

"Yes, I am," he insisted. "I’m bad."

"Well, I think you’re a good kid."

Then, with a smirk: "You’re not my friend."

Lucky for me, my friend Molly provided me with a completely slick response to this statement: "You’re right Shef; I’m your mom."

Shef, unrelenting: "You’re not my friend."

Me, unfazed and proud of it: "Well, good night, Shef. I love you very much."

Shef, full of mirth: "I don’t love you."

Me, determined: "I love you though." And then I made a hasty retreat, to a chorus of "I don’t love you," repeated over and over as I walked down the stairs.