John wasn’t in his sharp, self today—he was far, far away in his regressed little headspace. His big body was sprawled on the couch, legs kicking against the cushions as his cheeks turned blotchy red.

“Nu-uhhh! Wan’ it!” he wailed, his voice cracking into a frustrated cry. His fists balled up, thumping against the armrest like a petulant toddler. Tears streamed down his face, his lower lip jutting out in a trembling pout.

You crouched down in front of him, trying to soothe, even as his cries rose in pitch. “John, sweetheart, you know you only get your dummy at nap time or bedtime. Not now, baby.”

That only made things worse. John let out a piercing scream, throwing his head back, legs kicking wildly. His words came out jumbled, broken by sobs. “Waaa—mamaaaa—wan’ binky! Wan’ nowww!” He couldn’t articulate much more than that, reduced to guttural pleas and sobs, his regression pulling him deep into toddlerish frustration.

You reached to gently catch one of his flailing hands before he hurt himself. “I know, I know you want it, bug. But mama said no. You’ll be okay.”

John yanked his hand back, his face scrunched up in rageful tears.

“Bad mama!” he shouted, though the way his voice cracked made it sound more like a desperate cry than an insult. He kicked again, little hiccuping sobs shaking his chest as he buried his wet face into a cushion.