Cold Comfort

Speaking of food . . .

Over the weekend L’s Mother tried to make him some oatmeal, and somehow did it “wrong” (by the standards of a three-year-old, I mean), so she generously agreed to make him some more. As she was making his oatmeal again, she looked down at him and said, “Daddy makes the best oatmeal, doesn’t he?”

I wasn’t there for this, but I like to think he placed his little hand on hers before saying what I was told he said next:

“Mommy makes the best cereal,” he cheerily replied. (Which, for the record, is a procedure which entails taking dry cereal from a package and placing it on a plate for him.)

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