Nothing is perfect

Tolliver is as opinionated as a small congressperson.  Replete with confidence.  Brimming with moxie.
He knows what he likes and he knows what he doesn't; he likes almost everything, but not to stop for a new diaper or the beginning of a bath.

While we were at Poppy's, Tollie complained about his rain boots not feeling perfect.  His protests progressed from there.  He stretches out the two syllable word into a sad little melody.
My boots are not perfect. 
My burrito does not taste perfect. 
My watch isn’t feeling perfect. 
My pillow is not perfect. 

Nothing is perfect.

Hardly a day goes by that is not peppered with some sort of disappointment - mine, his, ours.  I don’t know whether it sounds ungrateful to admit that, my own disappointment?  I try to let all the feelings in, even the ones that knock uninvited.  Maybe I shouldn't.  Sometimes the disappointment is watered by tears, I let it grow too big for my body and it spills into other things, touches other people.  Sometimes Tollie's disappointment overstays its welcome and I try to help him usher it out.  I wonder whether I should be more empathetic or whether I should encourage him to be more satisfied.  Probably both.

As for the glasses or the goggles he has constantly glued to his face?  They don't always feel perfect.
I asked him to file a brief with the Flawless Commission.  He is still waiting to hear back.