Saturday morning featured one of Fuss's increasingly uncommon 6am wakeup calls, which I resent in direct proportion to their frequency. When 6am was the norm I didn't mind. I rolled out of bed, put on the kettle & set him up with breakfast while semi-conscious. Once the coffee brewed I'd put on a show for the little man while I checked the orders, packed the books and cleaned up after last night's dinner.
In a world where he mostly rises at seven (or, joyous event, seven thirty), six becomes the anthill under the picnic table.
It seems like half his teeth are coming in at once, which puts him in a consistently dire mood. Not that I blame him and this too shall pass, etc etc. But it makes navigating the shoals of his changeable moods more challenging than usual.
I made a peanut butter & honey sandwich and was packing my bag en route to work this morning when Fuss spied it and started freaking out.
Reason was, as usual, a resounding failure.
"That's daddy's lunch".
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRHHHHHHHHHHHHHG!!!"
"Do you want me to make one for you?"
"AAAAAAAAAAAOOOOOOOOOOORRRRRRGHHHH!!"
As my frustration mounted the Wife, as is her wont, made a cogent suggestion.
"Just give him a bite."
I dug the sandwich out of its ziplock repository and proffered it.
The howling ceased as he leaned forward and took the world's daintiest mouse-bite, then smiled and made one of his ambrosial Happy Noises while patting both his thighs with delight.
I pocketed the sandwich with its serrated crescent moon reminder and slipped out the door.
1 comment:
And I bet when you see the bite later you're gonna smile.
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