Greetings Little One

An elephant sandwich?

You do not eat meat, little one. With the exception of well-done bacon, you refuse to eat meat of any kind.

As a result, I often ask if you would like a chicken sandwich or a cheeseburger, loving the way you say, “No thank you!” and “I don’t eat the chickens, Daddy!”

Today I decided to get silly. I asked if you would like a triceratops sandwich.

“Don’t be silly, Daddy.”

“How about a giraffe on a hotdog bun?” I asked.

“No!”

“A hippopotamus melt?”

“No, thank you!”

How about an elephant sandwich?” I asked.

You paused for a moment before saying, “Okay, Daddy.”

I tried to explain that I was kidding, but you spent the next five minutes insisting upon an elephant sandwich before I finally managed to distract you with toy.

Apparently you are more than willing to give elephant meat a try, little one.

The joy of a cupcake

I don’t know if I have ever felt as much joy as you do over this cupcake, little one.

These photographs were taken by your mother during dessert at Effie’s restaurant. Since I was sitting beside you, eating a slice of coconut cream pie, I had no idea that you were literally bursting with joy over the cupcake.

I knew you liked it, but I had no idea how much you liked it.

These might be my favorite photographs ever taken of you, little one. Nothing makes me happier than to see you smile.

   

Fruit is good.

Today you looked at me and said, “Daddy, an apple a day keeps the doctor away.”

“Where did you learn that?” I asked, slightly dumbfounded.

“Mrs. Reno taught me,” she said. “She is a teacher at my school. Let’s eat apples.”

School is a good place, little one.

Navigation concerns

You went to dinner with Nani and Gramps last week, and after rejecting The Rainforest Café (you love their fish tanks but despise the frightening interior of the restaurant, they allowed you to choose the location.

“California Pizza Kitchen” you said and then led the way through the mall to the restaurant.

The fact that you can already navigate your way through the mall is a little unsettling to me, little one.

    

Breakfast and The Beatles (and a little chair dancing)

This is my favorite breakfast of all time, little one.

Close enough

In an attempt to teach you excellent manners, little one, we have gotten you to the point that you ask for things like you did at breakfast this morning:

"May I need more Special K please?”

It’s so cute that I kind of don’t want to fix it.

Too much like Daddy

Mommy: You should try the green ice cream. I bet you'd like it.

You: I bet I don't like it.

You get ice cream. We get chicken and pasta?

Mommy explained that the new baby will be sleeping in our bedroom for a while after she is born.

You began crying.  You said that you want the baby to sleep in your room.

“When the baby’s older, she can sleep in your room,” Mommy said.  “But for now, the baby will wake up a lot at night, crying because she will need to eat because her tummy is very small, and we don’t want her crying to wake you up all night.”

Please note that we don’t actually know the sex of the baby, little one, but you insist that it’s a girl, so we concede the pronoun rather than fighting over it. 

You said, “When the baby is crying, you can give her milk and you can give me ice cream to stop us crying.” 

Mommy asked, “Well, what if I‘m crying?  What do I get?”

You thought for a second and then said, “Hmmm… you get chicken.”

“Chicken!” Mommy said.  “What if I want ice cream?”

“No,” you said. “You get chicken.”

“What does Daddy get if he wakes up crying?” Mommy asked.

You thought again and then said, “Daddy gets pasta.”

Had you offered me ice cream, I might have taken the deal and stuck the baby in your room.  But as it stands, you just negotiated yourself out of ice cream condolences. 

So much for eating

I made the mistake of allowing toys at the table, little one.

In less than ten minutes, the food had been turned into props and all eating had ceased. 

I will not make this mistake again. 

   

You sculpt in cheese

You are apparently becoming the Andy Goldsworthy of food, little one.

Or at least of cheese.  

I wonder how much money Andy Goldsworthy makes in a year.