Out of desperation we crack open our groceries and make a picnic for ourselves right there in the Costco food court. We had just finished a typically epoch shop, but atypically at night, without any daytime food-sample ladies to fawn over Gavin’s cherubic charm and ply him with interesting morsels for his Moveable Toddler Feast. So, emergency picnic it was.
After gnoshing with gusto and performing his getting-dismissed-from-the-table duties, Gavin was rewarded with a lovely chocolate covered Costco ice cream on a stick. Meanwhile my husband, being a magician with food, and possessing a special food-bond with our son, often ends up easing bonus morsel-y mouthfuls into Gavin well after his official dining session with us has ended. So why was I surprised when, after enjoying the ice cream for a while, Gavin hands it over and reaches for a worked-over, disposed chicken bone from a napkin and starts working it over some more.
“Would you like another chicken bone?” asks his father, “One with… chicken on it?”
Now Gavin is alternating between gnawing chicken and slurping chocolate dipped vanilla ice cream. Daddy is overtly pleased, and smug. I am amused, and strangely delighted, but also disturbed because let’s face it; ice cream and chicken?
I stare at my husband, silently scolding him; “I’m glad you’re enjoying this. It’s all your fault you know. All your genes anyway.” My husband looks back at me with his silent smirk that says, “And your point?”
Then he actually says, as if to reassure me or something, “Well, he’s got your little furrow in his brow, and your wiggle at the top of his butt crack.”
“I have a wiggle at the top of my butt crack?” I protest, alarmed (the correct term being ‘booty’ by the way).
Apparently, I do. And so does my son. And a furrow in his brow and a peculiar taste in food. Love that kid!