Yes, you read that correctly.
Lately my youngest (he’s five and a half) has taken to eating butter sandwiches. Those are exactly what they sound like—two slices of bread glued together with butter.
As we only buy hearty whole grain brown bread, I don’t see a problem with this.
(Yes, we’ve totally deceived them—they’re going to grow up and realize that unless it was a hamburger or hotdog bun, they missed the childhood boat that is soft gummy white bread. And yet if our kids grow up and decide the only thing they can hate their parents for is our choice of bread, well, I figure we’ll have done a lot of other things right. Heh.)
Every day when preparing his lunch (for school or our own table), I ask him if that’s all he wants for a sandwich. Plain butter.
To my surprise one day, there’s an adjustment.
“Ninjas,” he states.
Just like that. Ninjas.
Um. Okay, weird child who is clearly mine. Ninjas, sure. I wave my hands around, clang about the kitchen and (obviously) add ninjas to his sandwich.
He’s ecstatic. Until he looks at the sandwich, peeling the bread back to inspect the gooey peaks of butter clinging to the underside.
“Uh, Mom?” He points. “There’re no ninjas in here.”
“Well if you could see the ninjas, they aren’t very good ninjas, now are they...?”
Point for me, yes? Heh...
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