Boone and I are having a battle of wills. He’s testing out different sounds, different volumes. I don’t mind this. My problem is he’s become quite fond of his high-pitched shriek. Usually, it means he’s tired or hungry. On days like today, however, it means “Hello!” and “Look at this toy!” and “Hey, I can scream!” and “I just made another one of dad’s hairs turn gray!”

My part of the battle of wills involves me not coming completely unhinged. The last thing these boys need is John Nash for a father.

The problem with having a battle of wills with a baby is they don’t now it’s a battle and they don’t know what it means to lose said battle because they don’t know what “battles” and “losing” are. They barely know what pants are.

No, Boone doesn’t know what it means to lose a battle of wills. Not today. Today, he only knows screeching.

To compound the issue, the wildfires up north have made the air quality in L.A. today harmful for babies. So, we’re all cooped up in this apartment. Screeching.

I fear this battle is lost. The voices tell me so.