|This is the oozing-in-frosting Easter|
cookie, on Easter, in all its fresh glory.
|Not what one would expect when pulling|
out a dining room chair.
Thank goodness I
opted to wash the tablecloth.
It took me a minute. My mind: 'Huh? How . . .?' Then life becomes clear again and I remembered that I am the mother to Tank: my third son who weighed in at 10 lbs 3 oz BEFORE his due date, and who hasn't stopped ingesting anything since that day.
Moments after he was born, they took his blood sugar and said they needed my permission to give him a bottle. I had birthed a few boys prior to this monster-sized newborn, so I was like, 'What? I plan to exclusively breastfeed. Bottle . . .?' The nurse assured me it would be fine, but that he needed a bottle. Of course I wanted to remind her that they had starved me all day, and I was pretty sure my blood sugar was low too. What Tank wanted was more than a bottle or a breast. He wanted a cheeseburger.
When we took him home, all he did was nurse. Literally. My poor body was tricked into thinking I had just birthed a litter, not a baby. My milk came in ten fold, and for the first time in my life I made Dolly Parton look like she wore a training bra. I could not button a shirt. Don't worry, I have no photos to back this claim up. You will have to trust me, or choose not to ever imagine my misery. Either way.
Anyway, my 16 year old son swiped the remnants of the Easter frosting (with a dab of cookie attached for shits and grins), and stashed it on a chair in the dining room so he could go back and enjoy it at his leisure. Or whenever his blood sugar dropped.
I guess he ended up forgetting about it. Maybe he was in a bit of sugar shock and it erased his memory, because there was still cookie left on the plate thing. Typically my dining room 'finds' are empty plates and dirtied, discarded silverware. Jealous?
Yes, we do have an ant problem. Go figure.