We attended a birthday party this weekend for a little girl who was turning one. A couple of hours in, I slunk my way to the empty kitchen. I kept a keen eye on the door while I shoved handfuls of cracked pepper and olive oil Triscuits in my mouth.
A little girl walked in. She was maybe 3-years old. She carried a toy that had just been unwrapped in the still-ongoing mayhem of gift opening. It was stuck to the package with Fort Knox Security-style plastic ties.
The girl looked up at me with imploring eyes. She lifted the toy towards my Triscuit-filled face. I took it from her, then fished around in my pocket for my jack knife. Ah, yes. I remembered it.
Four quick snips later, the toy was free. She smiled, took it from my hands, and ran back to the party.
Me: Aaaaaand... back to the Triscuits.
I'm that kind of dad.
1 comment:
Those Triscuits are like crack. The host of that party was a pusher, you were the victim. 'Nuff said.
Post a Comment