You Can’t Argue With Her Logic

The Poo was sitting in her bath recently, and when I announced that it was time to get out and dry off, she rolled over in protest.

She was floating on her belly, her cute wee bum bobbing in and out of the water. I grabbed it in a gentle pinch and announced that it was so cute I could eat it up.

Alarmed, the child sat straight up and looked at me with her enormous hazel eyes.

“No, Mommy!” she yelled. “Don’t eat me!”

Amused, I smiled wickedly and proceeded to tell her all the ways I could prepare and ingest her bottom:

What if I sliced it, fried it in oil and sprinkled it with powdered sugar?

What if I roasted it in the oven with potatoes and carrots?

Can I eat it with apple slices and whipped cream?

Each suggestion was met with an ever-louder yelp of distress. Finally, the child regarded me with all the seriousness her three scant years can muster.

“Mommy,” she said slowly, as if speaking to someone unfamiliar with the English language. “If you ate up all my parts, I would be in your belly and then you wouldn’t have me anymore and you would be so sad.”

Her literal fear that I might grab her out of the tub and eat her right there like a cannibal cowed my delight over teasing her.

I scooped her out of the tub, wrapped her in a big brown towel. I held her close and assured her that all was as it should be.

“You’re so right, little bear,” I told her. “I love you and I would be so sad if you were in my belly all eaten up. You’re my girl.”

“And you’re my mom,” she replied, planting a big kiss smack on my lips.

Yes, yes indeed, I am.