How do they do that, that, thing?

That thing toddlers do, where, they've been working on your last nerve for hours and just when you're at the end of your rope, they do something so freakin' cute, it just about breaks your heart in half?

There were times today when, I swear to God, if someone had turned up at the front door with a 6-pack and a pepperoni pizza, I would have traded Hank for them--with a tip. We drove each other bonkers today. He's starting to throw himself on the floor and beat his head against the floor when I make unreasonable requests. Things like "Don't yank on the kitty, Honey. He's a living creature, too" or "You can't play with those papers, Honey. That's my work" or "Drop the knife, Kid" (joke!).

So tonight we're getting ready for bed and I'm really, really ready for him to go to bed. Then, Hank climbs up in my rocker with his stuffed sock monkey, starts rocking back and forth, and puts the monkey to his chest--like he's breastfeeding. Then, he starts stroking the monkey's face and babbling quietly to it, just as I do when I'm nursing him.

Clang! That's the sound of my heart falling through the soles of my feet. Man. How do they do that?