Further Projectile Grodiness

Mornings can be dangerous. I’m not fully awake then, and tend to hover over a mug of tea, maybe reading the news online, maybe just letting our orange sofa reassure me that some comfort can be found in the blinding morning world. Caroline starts slow in the morning too, and will putter about, taking an hour to eat breakfast - cereal, oatmeal mush, or, like today, a croissant from the bakery. Eventually though, she’ll wake up, and if I don’t catch her at the right moment, chaos happens. Mush becomes face paint, cereal turns to mini hockey pucks to be flicked away.

But today. Oh my. Today.

Today was bakery day. Sometimes, on a Friday, or when we’re tired of cereal and there are no eggs in the house, we declare a bakery day. Will gets dressed fast and runs out the door, sweeping up change as he goes, to swing back through in five minutes. Dark suit, bright tie, polished shoes flashing, he leaves again in a rustle of bread bags, on his way to work.

Flash, rustle, door slam. Peace settled over the house as C ate her croissant flake by flake, I drank my tea, and the New York Times declared Chicago a second city no more - the White Sox had won the World Series. All seemed right with the world.

Then a curious snort began sounding from the living room. Sniff snort it went.

Sniff snort.

I grabbed some Kleenex and stood between Caroline and her morning cartoons. Her nose had a redness about it that clarified the sniff snort soundings, and I asked her if she had something stuck in it.

“No.“

“Are you sure? Let me see!“

A small tussle followed. She seemed to be sticking something back up her nose, or digging something from it. I couldn’t tell.

Sniff snort. And that funny finger/nose action again.

“Caroline, can you blow, blow very hard.“

Snort.

Something globulous went flying. Down my shirt, naturally.

It was a croissant glob. Caroline tried to grab it back. “Mine!“ she said.

“Were you sniffing this and then blowing it out again?“

“Mine! Mine croissant.“

Do I find any consolation that the only child bread sniffer in Prague or perhaps even the greater CEE region can pronounce croissant better than I can? No, I do not.

Filed under: toddler_tales grody language