“Mommy! Peanut butter!” he demands out of nowhere.
Daddy has just heated up some spaghetti.
“You want peanut butter instead?” I ask.
“No! Mommy! Peanut butter!” his demands are just as curt as before.
“Okay, I’ll make you peanut butter, sheesh!”
“No mommy,” now whining ever so desperately, “peanut buuutterrr.”
He points to the floor and my light bulb goes on.
“Ooooohhhh, you want to BE peanut butter! Okay!”
A sweet, sweet smile slowly takes over his porcelain face as he realizes I understand.
I lie down on the floor, arms outstretched, and he runs into them. I’m the bread. He’s the peanut butter. We are stuck together.