My son, home from school and starving, went into the kitchen to get himself a snack. He opened the cupboards, pulled out our gigantic container of peanut butter (I buy it by the barrel), grabbed a bowl and sat down at the table. He started unscrewing the lid.
“Young man,” I said. Leo stopped, unaware that he was being watched. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”
Leo pulled the lid off the peanut butter and laid it on the table. He leaned over the open top and breathed in the scent of it. He smiled. “I love peanut butter.”
“I wanted a snack.”
“I see peanut butter and I see a bowl,” I said. “Aren’t you missing something?”
Leo stared at me.
I stared back.
“WHAT?” he said, exasperated.
“This is not how we eat peanut butter,” I said primly.
“FINE,” he said, stomping over to the silverware drawer. “I’ll use a stupid spoon.”
“Well-” I began.
“Crazy moms and their crazy spoons,” Leo muttered.
“Actually, I meant-” I said.
“When EVERYBODY knows that peanut butter tastes better with fingers.”
Then he shoved a heaping tablespoon – actually, it was so heaping that it was closer to a third of a cup – of peanut butter into his mouth and rolled his eyes at me.
“THERE,” he garbled. “HAPPY NOW?”