I have no idea where he got this.

Yesterday afternoon my almost-four-year-old was angry at his brother, so he ripped up one of my paperback books.

I said, "Don't rip up my book!  It makes me sad!"

He said, "It's okay, mommy.  It'll be fine."

I said, "No, it won't.  The book is broken now.  I can't read it anymore.  It's ruined.  That makes me sad."

He said, "I was mad at [the 10-year-old]."

I said, "I'm angry at you!"

He looked concerned and asked:  "Will you be mad at me all of the times?"

I was mixing up medicine for his sister and I paused.  "I will be mad until I calm down," I said.

He looked at me quite seriously and then said firmly:  "Mommy!"

"What?"  I was back at the sink.

"Take a deep breath!"

He pronounced it "breff."  

I paused again and turned around.  He was standing there, his head level with the countertop, looking at me expectantly.

I inhaled.  

He pantomimed exhaling, exaggerating the motion of his chin and head.

I exhaled, feeling the corner of my lip curl upwards.  I suppressed it.  "Now what?"

"Take a deep breath again," he told me.

I inhaled.  He pantomimed exhaling.  I exhaled.

"Now what?"  I asked again.

"Now you are all calmed down," he said.  And he went off to play.

And you know, he was right.