I had a parenting butter incident of my very own a few days ago. I had been trying to prepare dinner and the boys were in rare form; wildly running around the kitchen, stealing components of their dinner from their plates before I’d finished, and engaging in all manners of daredevil mischief which further diminished the odds that I’d ever complete dinner. I shooed them all into the living room, “Go watch TV. Leave me alone for a minute so I can get dinner on the table.”
Liam and Lucas reluctantly complied. James stuck around in the kitchen going about his normal business of pushing chairs around to access countertop supplies and opening the fridge in search of his beloved apple slices. I could see him out of the corner of my eye, standing in the light of the open fridge doors, chanting “Apple, apple, apple, apple…” I went about the dinner preparations, with my back turned to him. He became quiet and I’d assumed he’d temporarily given up his quest for precious apples.
And then Lucas comes into the kitchen, whining “Mommy, mommy, mommy…” I shooed him away in the same manner my mother had shooed me away at the pool. “But, Mommy…” he continued. I was becoming annoyed. I sent him away. He persisted, “But Gooba (our pet name for the baby) is eating bacon.”
I spun around, with the same swift shift of my mother at the pool. And sure enough, the baby was standing there with two handfuls of cooked bacon, which had been sitting on a plate in the fridge, happily snacking on his discovered fridge treasure. I let him eat the bacon. It’s bacon, after all, and I’m not some kind of monster who steals bacon from babies. He was a smart baby to recognize the value of his find.