I staggered out of bed this morning to discover a rather serious disagreement between my wife and our two year old son. Thanks to one reason or another it had been a difficult night, and I was not so much “awake” as “no longer sleeping.”

The argument, therefore, was particularly unwelcome.

The dispute was over the morning drink. The little guy wanted juice. His momma wanted him to drink chocolate milk instead. No, I don’t know what the problem was. These are the sorts of arguments that start small and then sneakily develop into Contests of Wills. An outsider looking in has no chance of understanding the significance of what’s really going on.

So I set about trying to ignore the problem and making myself an egg sandwich. After a little while, however, I couldn’t help myself.

I generated the most enthusiastic voice that I could. “Hey, little man, how about some delicious Moo Juice?”

He immediately rejected me.

“Are you sure? You don’t want any delicious Moo Juice?”

The second time penetrated his two-year old defenses. “Juice? Yes, I want juice! I want juice, Momma! Juice!”

It was time to deliver the punchline: “You know what Moo Juice is? It’s another name for milk!”

That stopped him. “Nooo…”

He looked at Momma to clear this up, so I jumped in. “Right, momma? Milk is Moo Juice, RIGHT?”

She nodded. “Yep. That’s Moo Juice.”

“I want Moo Juice! I want Moo Juice!”

What’s in a name, anyway?