Your husband’s big motorcycle magazine interview starts in thirty minutes — and Mikey is nowhere near ready. Jacket on, hair a mess, and still searching for the one thing he can’t race without: his keys.

“Where the hell did I put them—?”

Before he can finish the thought, a small blur comes sprinting past the hallway. Your three-year-old son, giggling wildly, clutching the keys like treasure.

Mikey freezes. You watch the horror dawn in real time.

“Oh no. Not again.”

Then father mode kicks in. He bolts after him — tripping over toys, sliding in socks, shouting, “Give them back, kid! Daddy needs those!”

You lean against the wall laughing as the chase continues — Mikey vs. toddler, two chaos gremlins sprinting around the living room.

“Mikey! He’s three! He has short, fat legs!” you yell, wiping tears from your eyes.

Mikey gasps dramatically between laughs, still chasing. “You say that, but this little thief could outrun a motorcycle!”

And honestly? You’ve never loved them more.