Last Saturday, Nate let me sleep until 8:00 in the morning, which was awesome. Then I heard a gentle tapping (upon my chamber door). I croaked, and Nate opened the door and poked his head in. “I’m hungry, daddy.”
On my bleary way to the bathroom, I tripped on the laundry basket, which I had strategically placed in the hallway the night before, specifically so I would trip on it. “Okay, buddy. I’m just going to start the laundry, you think about what you’d like to eat.”
As I poured Tide Free into a measuring cup, Nate called down the basement stairs. “Actually, I don’t want breakfast.”
Even in my semi-conscious state, I knew this was… odd. “You’re telling me you’re not hungry after all?”
“Is there anything else I can do for you, or can I go back to bed for a while?”
“You can go back to bed. I just want to be alone in the room where we eat.”
A brief pause, as I attempted to figure this out. Then: “Oh. I think I see where this is going.” I started the laundry and bounced upstairs. I grabbed my son and swept him up into a good-morning hug. As I kissed his cheek, I took a deep sniff. Sure enough: chocolate and peanut butter. Someone’s been into the Easter candy.
Like father, like son. I took the basket and moved it to the top of the fridge. “You just let me know when you’re ready for breakfast, my sneaky little weasel.”