.
Why are toddler bellies so cute?
It must be ingrained in us by God. Hardwired for our species survival.
Last night at Karate a mom confessed.
"My 2 year old opened the staff fridge, and ate your chocolate. I'll bring you some more!"
I looked back with horror, because I have a lot of chocolate in the staff fridge. A lot. All a bit fancy and far more than any 2 year old could or should eat.
Dark, lovely chocolate.
Chocolate rations.
Chocolate covered pumpkin seeds.
Chocolate covered chilis and chocolate with dried cherries.
Chocolate soul and body.
Chocolate that I don't share with my own children.
Just how much did he consume?
"I hope he's going to be okay?" I gasped with dismay. Dismay at both her probable evening full of a stomach-achy two year old and my chocolate loss. Grief started to set in. How could this happen? When can I get to Trader Joe's again!?
Then I looked down. The guilty one was standing beside her, with a round full belly poking out between his tee-shirt and his pants. He was holding her hand with a bit of chocolate smeared down his forearm and had the most cherubic satisfied chocolaty smile I've ever seen.
But the belly? It was the belly. It was so cute, so adorable. I couldn't even hang on to annoyance much less grief.
The phrase, "A belly laugh" has a whole new dimension.
And it's a wonderful dimension full of dark chocolate.
.
.
Why are toddler bellies so cute?
It must be ingrained in us by God. Hardwired for our species survival.
Last night at Karate a mom confessed.
"My 2 year old opened the staff fridge, and ate your chocolate. I'll bring you some more!"
I looked back with horror, because I have a lot of chocolate in the staff fridge. A lot. All a bit fancy and far more than any 2 year old could or should eat.
Dark, lovely chocolate.
Chocolate rations.
Chocolate covered pumpkin seeds.
Chocolate covered chilis and chocolate with dried cherries.
Chocolate soul and body.
Chocolate that I don't share with my own children.
Just how much did he consume?
"I hope he's going to be okay?" I gasped with dismay. Dismay at both her probable evening full of a stomach-achy two year old and my chocolate loss. Grief started to set in. How could this happen? When can I get to Trader Joe's again!?
Then I looked down. The guilty one was standing beside her, with a round full belly poking out between his tee-shirt and his pants. He was holding her hand with a bit of chocolate smeared down his forearm and had the most cherubic satisfied chocolaty smile I've ever seen.
But the belly? It was the belly. It was so cute, so adorable. I couldn't even hang on to annoyance much less grief.
The phrase, "A belly laugh" has a whole new dimension.
And it's a wonderful dimension full of dark chocolate.
.
.
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