story of my life

Chicken has been, shall we say, DALLYING over his dessert. He picks a candy from his dwindling Halloween stash and then holds it in his hand until the chocolate has melted all down his wrist and he holds the warm, gooey lump formerly known as a Milky Way out to me and says, "Fik it." Which of course I cannot do.

For dessert tonight, Chicken wanted some of the cake that he made with Daddy instead of Halloween candy. We served him a piece of cake. And a fork. No, not that fork. ANOTHER fork. A different fork. A ZEBRA FORK!

After locating a Zebra Fork (which, FYI is actually just a purple fork, not a stripe to be seen), and securing a cup of orange tea which needed no less than 12 ice cubes before it was "not hot," and therefore drinkable, Chicken proceeded to look at, blow on, and talk at length about his cake ("Sugar... and flour... and eggs... and vanilla...") without eating a single bite. After 20 minutes, bath time was nigh. We took the cake and told him he could try again tomorrow. We got in the bath. 

Me: I know, sometimes we spend so much time thinking about cake that we run out of time to eat the cake.

Chicken: I want my cake.

Me: That's your cake, baby, and you can have it tomorrow. But you had a lot of time to eat it and you didn't. So we had to say night-night to the cake and come take a bath.

Chicken: I want my cake.

Me: It's bath time.

Chicken: It's cake time.

Me: How about a story? Should we do a story in the bath?

Chicken: Once upon a time...

Me: Oh, you're going to tell a story?

Chicken: Yeah.

Me: Great! Tell me a story.

Chicken: Once upon a time... it was cake.

He extends his right hand palm-up, and points into it with his left index finger.

Right. Here.


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