Yesterday's ghoulish mouthfuls of blood were a paradoxically good omen- Fuss is in better spirits today and managed to eat some of his scrambled eggs and half a mashed up avocado.
He was into helping, a change from recent mornings where 'help' was being defined as running away and hiding the fork, or staring at me blank-faced while dropping an egg on the floor. Today he cracked them (mostly) by himself, painstakingly added tiny pinches of salt to each golden yolk, then stirred vigorously.
New to the ritual was a demand to add the butter to the pan himself, followed by stirring the eggs with a rubber spatula under the watchful eye of Dada. And last night he helped the Wife with a pan of bread pudding, which is the only sane thing to do with a big flat of expired croissants abandoned on your doorstep by crazy in laws.
Well, besides throwing them out.
My profusely illustrated Royal Wedding post is coming this evening- stay tuned!
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