Usually Saturday mornings are for Jack and me. Typically, and even more so this time of year, my wife works Saturdays. So he and I have become entrenched in our little Saturday routine. Except for today.
The first part of our routine on Saturday is cereal. We always have cereal on Saturday and pancakes on Sunday. So I turn on THE movie of the moment in our house, and walk slightly bleary eyed in the kitchen to assemble the highly complicated concoction of Raisin Nut bran and milk. With assembly complete, I head back to our usual spot on the couch for me to catch up with some email, and for him to devour a bowl and some dragons. I set the bowl down in front of him and move to pick up the laptop. Only this time when I look back, he’s just staring into the bowl with the spoon still tilted to the side in it.
“Not feeling it , buddy?”, he shakes his head “No”.
“Want some fruit instead?”, vigorous shaking of the head, “yes”.
Fortunately I had gone to the store yesterday and had cut up fruit the previous night. I was in no real mood to combine fruit, knives, and my hands together in the same proximity till at least noon. So, I decide that I am now in the mood for slightly soggy cereal, and head to the kitchen to grab the bowl of fresh fruit for his highness. In repeat fashion, I return to couch and place the, and this is important here, WHOLE bowl of fresh cut fruit. That’s right, dear reader, your stupid writer didn’t consider it important to transfer a small amount of fruit into a smaller bowl. Why would I, right? Why dirty another bowl?
He eats his fruit quietly, while I take solace in nut covered raisins.
With my porridge finished, I decide to take my bowl into the kitchen and wash it like the good little domesticated man I am. No reason to think a 2 year old with a giant bowl of freshly cut fruit is going to be a problem, is it? Now if there is a parent out there who knows what it is like to assume something with your child AND then turn your back on that said assumption for two seconds, you know where this is going.
He comes into the kitchen, where I am standing at the sink, and tugs at my leg.
“Whatcha need Roo?”,
No reply. Nothing.
And at that moment I can see it in his eyes. I don’t remember the walk from the kitchen to the living room. I’m sure it happened, but one minute I was in the kitchen, and the next second I was in the living room.
And there it was.
My living room floor looked like a headpiece Carmen Miranda would have been proud to wear. By my account, and taking into consideration what he might have eaten before the incident, there are mangoes, one whole cantaloupe, a slew of grapes, a whole pineapple, strawberries, and half a honeydew melon now strewn like a Viking rampage across the floor.
I swear. Possibly out loud. I can’t remember.
He’s upset. I’m pretty upset. And the dog is upset too. Of course it being Saturday morning I hadn’t vacuumed yet, because I do that on Sunday, the carpet is littered with land mines for the fruit in the form of the hair off our Lab Maggie. So now I have visions of throwing this entire batch of fruit out, and crafting a story to my wife as how all of that might have gone down. I’m seriously considering throwing the dog under the bus on this one.
I gather the fluffy fruit back into its bowl, and carry it to the kitchen, when I notice the garbage is full. Why? Garbage is also on the list for Sunday. \
When it hits me.
Wash the fruit. It’s fresh and not all soggy and mushy yet. It’s just dog hair, it’s not like it was dumped into puddle of stagnant water. And while I am now far outside the 5 second floor rule, I think I can save this, I think. So I grab a small bowl and put a single layer of grapes in it and plop the kid back on the couch. The cold water coming out of the tap is just the right temperature for washing dog hair off of fruit, frigid. Grapes, strawberries and melon are a breeze and I’m starting to feel the only casualty that might come out of this whole thing is a new bowl. But the pineapple is being the stubborn holdout with its sticky ridges and porous pulp. The dogs hairs have already set up little communities. I am going to have to brush them out. The only unused brush in the house is an extra nipple cleaning brush still in the package. That’ll work. What felt like an eternity later, or at least have of Car Talk, later, the fruit was saved. Some pieces couldn’t be saved, but as a whole casualties were low.
He’s happy. I’m happy. Till I look up at the clock and realize it is way to early to start thinking about having a beer.