So I sing Joe a song from a kid's book, doing my best to read the music notation, and you know it can't be going well if you've ever heard me sing. (My brother-in-law said, memorably, when Joe was an infant, "In this picture Joe is not crying, which tells us that Whit is not singing." Even more memorably, when Joe was about two, and I was trying to sing him to sleep, he turned to me after 10 minutes of "I've Been Working on the Railroad," and said, "All done the music, Dad.")
And the song says that "you" are the greatest gift of all, and by "you" it means the kid to whom the book is being read. And I tell Joe that sappy or not, this is true. Joe is the best gift I have ever gotten. And he says, "Naaah."
What's better? I asked him.
"Well, there's the Buddah," he said, and pointed to the wooden likeness of the Buddah a friend gave me recently. A fine gift, is the Buddah, in all his incarnations, but no -- he's not quite a match for Joe. Which is how I know I will never master Buddhism.