So a few nights ago, Caleb decided he wanted to make eggs. At 10:30 at night. For a “snack.”
“You are NOT making eggs for a snack!” Eric and I said.
Caleb was indignant. “Why not?”
“Well, for starters, you had a double Baconator and fries for dinner,” I said.
Caleb waved his hands dismissively. “That was hours ago.”
“No,” I repeated.
“But there’s nothing here to eat for a snack!” said Caleb in the same tone one might say, “But there’s no ammunition left and we’re surrounded by zombies!”
“And,” he went on triumphantly, “it’s too late! I already broke the eggs and put milk in the bowl.”
“Oh, no,” I said in mock horror. “There’s no turning back now!” I jabbed a pointed finger at the bowl. “Just wrap it up and put it in the refrigerator. You can eat them in the morning.”
Gunnar chimed in from across the room. “Won’t that cause problems? I mean, what if he wakes up in the morning and it’s like a mutated chicken?”
“I don’t think you understand how eggs work,” I said.
“Wait a minute,” Eric said suddenly. “Why don’t we have any snack food? Didn’t we have like three containers of ice cream?”
“That was from a week ago,” Caleb claimed.
“No, it wasn’t!” we both exclaimed.
“Caleb, that was Saturday.” I counted on my fingers. “Four days ago!”
Eric’s face turned deadly. “My Reese’s cups better still be in the freezer,” he said threateningly.
Let me pause to explain something here. My 40-year old husband has the sweet tooth of all the children in Willy Wonka combined. Ever since I’ve known him, he has guarded his “snacky treats” with the vigilance of the Lucky Charms leprechaun. His sister loves telling the story of the time she babysat for the boys and Eric forbade her to eat any of his Oreos. He will count them, you guys. And woe to the hapless child (or wife) who eats them without his knowledge. “There were twelve Oreos in here and now there are only eight. Who ate four Oreos?” I’m surprised he doesn’t have a security camera set up in front of our pantry, maybe with an electrified net to catch nefarious cookie-snatchers.
Okay, so back to the story.
“Oh, I ate one, honey,” I said.
There are not enough punctuation marks in the English language to convey how angry he sounded in that moment. But luckily I was able to draw a quick sketch:
I stiffened at his tone and turned around. “What?”
He ignored me. “Well, how many are left?!?”
“There are three left. It was a king-sized.” I glared at him. “Are you yelling at me about candy?”
He huffed and puffed. “Well…” he started.
Oh, I don’t think so, mister. “You know that thing you wanted to do tonight?” I asked. “Not happening.” I made a sassy “Nu-UH, honey!” gesture and flounced out of the room.
Gunnar and Caleb looked horrified.
“I don’t think I want a snack after hearing that,” Caleb said.