I am making peanut butter and banana crackers for the Podling, because we have no bread made. Cracker, schmear of the ol’ PB, slice of banana, cracker. Repeat.
This is how he prefers his PB-banana combo, when there is no bread with which to make a banana-hot-dog-peanut-butter sandwich. (Note: “hot dog” in this context is used as a description of the method of delivery, not that my kid is stuffing his face with tube steak slathered in peanut butter.) The cracker sandwiches are…dainty. Precious, even. While making them to his rigorous specifications, I had two thoughts.
Is it possible a boy could be so prissy? MY boy? My very un-prissy husband’s boy? Inconceivable!
BRILLIANT. Why am I not eating them this way myself?
I later remembered that in fact, prim little tidy sandwiches make a lot of sense for a boy who eschews meat, who makes paths with wooden train tracks for the ants marching under the front door to the cluster of cereal he put aside for them (that they actually use – no lie), who has no problem making an ass of himself to make the Peanut giggle, who would like nothing more than to cuddle with us in the morning with his cold-ass feet (cold ass-feet?), who hates to be alone so much that he has started naming the ants and carrying them around the house, and who regularly builds towers with windows out of Duplo/Lego-esque blocks. He’s a sensitive, intelligent, social kid. I don’t know why I didn’t realize that in the first place.