Cecelia is fond of telling me that my wry sense of humor with my children will one day blow up in my face. I am fond of laughing at her. I like to remind her that I don't remember anything from when I was 3. Why would Stink?
On this note, about six months ago, Stink was just beginning his whiny stage (a whole other post on this bain of my existence - he's still in it.) All I wanted to do was enjoy a gourmet dinner of scrambled eggs and toast in peace and he kept asking, over and over and over, "Where is my green spoon? I want my green spoon. Where did the green spoon go? Is it in the cupboard?" Apparently, if you ask two million times, in different ways, eventually your wishes will come true. I shall try this with my husband. "Where is the nanny? I want a nanny. Where did the good nanny go? Is she in the cupboard?"
In an act of complete frustration, incorporating Stink's new found fascination with all things Scooby and ghooly, I solemnly informed him that his green spoon had taken residence up the orefice of the Creeper.
My husband spit out his peas, I shot him a look of, "Comment, computer geek, and die" and Stink, very seriously, replied, "Oh." Lo and behold, he was able to ingest eggs with his pink spoon. He even survived the experience.
Flash forward to this evening. We're making dinner. Stink is on his metal folding chair about to stir the chicken I cut up for him, but before he does, he looks at me, very perplexed, and asks, "Mommy, is my green spoon still stuck up the Creeper's butt?"
Looks like someone got bit in the ass. And it wasn't the Creeper.