Do you know what one of my all-time favorite foods is?
Do you know what the boy is allergic to? Do you know what food will make his eyeballs swell shut and his lips swell huge and his breathing go all erratic?
Do you know what is very commonly found in peanut butter?
That would be the peanuts.
And that means that our house is always on TOTAL LOCK DOWN for all peanuts and peanut-related products, and just shoot me now, because WHY couldn’t the boy have been allergic to a horrible food, like cottage cheese?
Honestly? I will throw up just watching other people eat cottage cheese. I think it has something to do with the tiny balls of curdled milk swimming in pale, white-like cheese juice.
… when the boy goes to camp every June, I go to the grocery store, and I come home with a big jar of peanut butter. Hubs and I have it on our waffles. We make sandwiches out of it. We make Frozen Peanut Butter Pie, which is so delicious, it makes mama angels weep.
Last night, I happily threw a big jar of Jif into our shopping cart at Walmart, and all night long I anticipated the toast-with-peanut-butter-smeared-all-over-it that I would have for breakfast this morning.
Today, while the bread was basking in the orange glow of hot electrical wires, I ripped the foil top off the Jif jar. There are fewer things in this world that are as glorious-looking as the uninterrupted, unflawed, smooth top of the peanut butter.
I shoved a knife in and LOW! I did partake of the peanut butter, before the toast was finished.
AND THAT IS PRECISELY WHEN I REALIZED THAT SOMETHING WAS UTTERLY AND HORRIBLY WRONG WITH MY PEANUT BUTTER, BECAUSE WHEN DID JIF GET THIS GRITTY TEXTURE??!!
I had purchased the REDUCED-FAT JIF.
I cannot even begin to tell you about the horror that brings me, because healthy peanut butter is not the same as the glorious hallelujah that is the full-fat, full-salt, full-everything jar of Jif.
I. Have. Been. Robbed.
In other news, Thing 2 and I went to the park this afternoon, because that’s what people do during the summer. Of course, they also go to Disneyland and on camping trips, but let’s not push it.
My checkbook can afford the park.
By jumping, I mean that our toddler just stood on the edge of the playground equipment, regardless of how high up he was, and he launched himself into the air.
Thing 2 has no fear of pretending he’s Superman.
After nearly an hour of running here and running there and this slide and that slide and which slide and what slide, Thing 2 discovered the gravel.
Yes. He did.
He discovered the gravel, and he did eat of it.
While I was snapping these next pictures of him from a distance (Please stop and give thanks for the wonder known as the telephoto lens!), I noticed, through the lens of my camera, that my toddler was chewing something.
And THAT is exactly what all good mothers love to notice at parks, because it ultimately means MY KID JUST FOUND SOMEONE’S CIGARETTE BUTT AND IS FEROCIOUSLY CHEWING IT AT THIS VERY MOMENT.
That is why I was thankful that it was just gravel today.
The untrained eye may not be able to notice that Thing 2 is actually eating something in these pictures, but HIS MOTHER CAN TOTALLY TELL! It’s the set of his jaw… it’s the pursed lips… my seventh sense KNEW that there was something in his mouth, and I had not brought any snacks to the playground with us!
After doing a complete sweep of the toddlers mouth and informing him with much disgust and head-shaking and grouchy-looking eyebrows that GRAVEL IS YUCKY! WE DON’T EAT THE GRAVEL!, Thing 2 went back to playing.
But, like a hamster who has turned wild and discovered meat, he just wouldn’t stop eating it.
So… we came home, in the midst of tears and I’M RUNNING AWAY FROM HOME and EVERYONE ELSE HAS A MOTHER WHO LETS THEM EAT SMALL ROCKS AND DIRT!
Later this afternoon, my friend Jodi and I were talking about this, and she laughed. And then she said, “Some day, you’ll look back on this and laugh, too, even though it’s not very funny to you today. But I bet when you’re telling Thing 2’s future wife about his gravel-eating days, you’ll start to laugh.”
I replied, “Jodi, gravel-eaters don’t ever get married. They live in their parents’ basements forever and ever, amen.”
And Jodi said, “Well, then. I guess you can sign him up on one of those online dating sites and type in, ‘He’s easy to cook for!'”
With that said, I’m going to go smear some reduced-fat Jif onto an Eggo waffle for the toddler’s dinner, because goodness knows he won’t eat the steaks Hubs is grilling for us.
His tastes are a lot simpler than steaks.
Think… gravel. And also dirt.
Y’all carry on and have a merry Tuesday night.