Sunday morning, something funny happened in a not-so-funny way. The kids were eating pink pancakes (I made extra pink pancakes on Saturday so they could also have some on Sunday) and I was downstairs catching up on my emails while they ate. I usually get a good 5-10 minutes uninterrupted, depending on what they’re eating.
Monkey has this habit of getting up in the middle of breakfast and dashing to the bathroom. One would think that she would get that bit of business taken care of beforehand, but not so.
She came back to the table (after cleaning up, of course) and I hear, “Little Man!”
Monkey walked downstairs, calling for me, and I could tell by her tone that she was barely holding it together.
“What’s up?” I ask, thinking any number of things that Little Man could have done.
“Little Man ate my last bite of pancakes,”
“Really? He really did that?” This was not on my list of things that Little Man could have done.
“Yeah, he really did.”
Oh man, what to do. Well, he can’t really give it back, now can he? So we go upstairs and have as reasonable a conversation as anyone can with a 3 year old about how it’s not nice to take food from another person’s plate, not even his sister.
But I have to wonder if she’ll be leaving her plate of pancakes unprotected again.