There I was. In the kitchen. I had just plated a meal for my two munchkins, one on a Frozen plastic plate with separate sections for the meat, the cheesy mashed cauliflower, and the green beans. The other meal wasn’t really “plated” so much as it was “high chair trayed.” I had lovingly cut up the meat into small, baby-bite-sized pieces. I had filled sippy cups with milk and orange juice.
I put one kid at the dinner table, sitting atop a Little Mermaid stool in a chair and the other in the high chair, strapped in so she didn’t stand and leap out of the high chair onto the hardwood floor. I then went back into the kitchen to make my plate.
As I finished putting my dinner on my fancy China (read: paper plate), I sat the plate down on the counter to pour myself a glass of sweet tea. (For you Northerners, it’s iced tea with sugar in it and you’re missing out on a lifetime of deliciousness.) I poured my drink and turned around to see Adeline, 3, with her fingers in my food.
It was then that I realized I hadn’t made her wash her hands before dinner.
I knew exactly where her hands had been. I’ve lived with this tiny creature for almost four years trying desperately to teach her ladylike behaviors, often in vain.
It pains me to write this.
“Adeline! When is the last time you washed your hands!” I exclaimed in absolute horror.
“Why? Can you smell that I’ve been digging in my butt?” she responded.
And that’s when I died.
Love to my loves,