Last year, shortly after C turned five, the boys and I found ourselves at one of those mall playgrounds again. Despite my wife’s most heartfelt reassurances to the contrary, the three of us invariably end up waiting for there her whenever we go to a mall.

C was still excited about turning five. He spotted a little boy playing on a giant plastic airplane and raced over to him.

“I’m five! Guess what? I’m five! Did you know I was five?”

He held up his right hand with his fingers spread wide to show that he was five.

Mall playgrounds are loud. It can be tough to hear what people are saying. The little boy looked up at C, saw the hand with its splayed fingers, and high-fived him. “All right!” he shouted.

Being high-fived so surprised C that he stopped talking. He looked at his hand, then looked over at me. I shrugged.

He ran over to another child. “I’m five!” he shouted.

That one high-fived him and then ran off to play somewhere else.

This was not what C was looking for. He turned around, hand still up in the air.

A little girl ran by and high fived him.

The big guy pulled his hand back down and walked over to me. I was laughing pretty hard by this point.

“I’m five!” He said.

“High five!” I said.

As he held up his hand, a smile crawled across his face. He looked back over his shoulder at the kids, then back at me. He giggled and high fived me.