The time: 7:56 a.m.
The scene: The living room floor
I could tell that the two littles were going to have a special brand of crazy for their day. Waking with the sun didn’t help. The humidity making their breakfast-covered jammies stick to their crabby little bodies didn’t do much to improve morale, either. So I decided to streamline my morning routine to almost nil, in order to turn this day around as soon as humanly possible.
Please keep in mind, it was 7:56 a.m.
I grabbed a container of leftovers from the fridge and headed to the living room (away from the crabbiness and FEELINGS and yogurt-covered chairs). Sitting on the floor next to the couch, I proceeded to shovel in food at a potentially unwise and indigestion-tastic speed. Four seconds later, Jasper stomped in.
“I have bite?”
Now, I know he didn’t want a bite. I know he didn’t need a bite. But, being a two year-old, he did have a fierce need to be on the pulse of every single inconsequential happening for the day. (Not shoes, laundry, or sunscreen help, oh no. But is someone sending an email or eating from a Tupperware? Bring me up to speed, sir.)
“This is my breakfast, pal.”
“I have bite.”
“No, thanks. This is Mom’s. Go tell your sister that in four minutes we’re gonna-”
“See? I see? I seeeeeeeeee.”
Thirty seconds later, I was wiping him down from hands to elbows, and attempting to eat the rest of the- good Lord, why I am eating chicken and mushrooms in a cream sauce at 8 flipping a.m.– over the sink with the ferocity of a sailor bailing water.
A tiny head rested against my leg and, as I looked down, I saw a tiny face weeping tiny, soundless tears towards the floor. I sat down next to him.
“Bud, it’s ok. After I clean up in here we’re going-”
“…I have bite?”
This was said quietly, sadly, as if uttered from a man who knows he’s viewed the coastline of his homeland for the very, very last time.
I can’t resist the eyelashes. He knows this.
“Fine. But get your own fork.” (The tears had brought on a fresh slate of bodily fluids that I didn’t necessarily want swirled into my breakfast Tupperware. Go ahead, take back my trophy.)
Thirty seconds and eight forks later, Jasper was poised over my breakfast (where I had divided bites into “mine” and “his” with a Pollyanna-like hopefulness).
He messily speared a bite. He messily shoved it into his mouth, using both hands for maximum sauce coverage. Immediately, he recoiled with a look of How Dare You.
“I no YIKE,” he quietly accused, spitting the bite back into the container (and rubbing his hands on his tongue for extra punctuation).
On his way back to the kitchen, he smeared his hands along the couch, the hallway walls, and the front of the refrigerator.
(I ate the rest of the food, convincing myself that I could totally tell which bites had touched the bite in his mouth.)
The End.
Speak Your Mind