Currently, there are three major safety precautions we take in the Motherfog household.
1.) Keep all small, chokable objects out of reach.
2.) Never leave children unattended in the bathtub. (Although we have been allowed 50 percent less vigilance these past five weeks given that only one-half of our children is currently allowed to bathe in a tub.
3.) Be sure NOT to break, rip, or cut Zachary’s food before acquiring clear and specific permission for such a drastic action.
Both Mommy and Daddy committed a sin of all sins. What were they thinking? No one knows. No one will EVER know.
The story goes…
The breakfast choice of late has been whole grain mini waffles. For those unfamiliar, they come in sets of perforated fours…four-leaf clovers, if your will. (Although my daughter calls them butterflies. Their perfect symmetry does not resonate truthfully with the shape of a butterfly, but I’ll let this one slide given her young age of 19 months.)
It is a known fact that Zachary must, and I stress MUST do his own tearing of these waffles (this rule goes for ALL FOOD…bananas, pizza, chicken, toast, etc. ) Should we absent-mindedly toss four separate waffle disks on his tray, the hills better be nearby, and we better get runnin’.
What did I do this morning?
I tore his waffles.
Holding my breath, and hoping the little prince might be distracted with yelling at his baby sister (who has adopted the pesky habit of saying “Mine, Mine, Mine” with a naughty grin, for no other reason than to get a rise out of him, as she isn’t actually claiming any object whatsoever), I placed the waffles on his tray, praying for a pass.
Nope. Not today. Tears immediately poured down his cheeks as he erupted into the most deadly of cries.
The silent cry.
The one where you wait…
…for what seems like minutes, for that initial ear-drum popping blast, wondering how on earth tiny lungs can hold on for so long.
I turned to my husband and asked if the box was empty. Thank heavens. There was one left.
A three-minute interlude commenced at the table, “The wheels on the Bus” keeping both children happy while the toaster thawed and crisped the last butterfly.
“You have got to be kidding me!”
Bellowed from the kitchen.
Thinking my husband had accidentally fresh-squeezed a mosquito into the vegetable juice he prepares me every morning, I turned and said,
“What?” (Secretly relieved as I was looking for an excuse to pass on my morning kale, broccoli and parsley – I’m good with just coffee today, thanks.)
“I broke the waffles”
Gasping, I shot up from the table. He and I fumbled frantically around the kitchen in a panic, searching for a quick fix for this unfortunate transgression. Time was running out! From the table, Zachary piped in,
“Where’s my waffle?”
Like teenagers trying to cover up their debauchery by filling their parents’ vodka with water, we grabbed the maple syrup and tried to use it as glue.
“A hair dryer? Should I go get the hair dryer to make it more sticky?”
Finally, I served the gluey breakfast and upped the motivation for my rendition of “Wheels on the Bus” hoping to sweep his attention away from broken waffles and toward my brilliance as a song and dance gal.
Our cover up was sort of successful. He did ask why the waffles came apart so easily, but miraculously bought our ludicrous answer.
“You have just become that good at ripping waffles, Zachary!”
I know what you’re thinking.
Why cater to a child to that extent?
A spoiled brat in the making.
I say this,
Hold your judgments, if you please.
The kid is on day 30 of his time in a half-body cast. The least we can do is let him tear apart his own flippin’ waffles.
But, my dear ones,
Saw to plaster, plaster to trash.
Sayonara Sir Spica
Starting on Saturday, he eats what we serve.
Intact or not.