We have some outrageous family lore on both sides of my family tree, like how my uncle Johnny ended up in the upstairs apartment painting the walls for the tenants when he was three, and how my dad at 18 months toddled across the railroad tracks, and another time ended up a ladder peeking in the second story window.
Every time I hear these stories, I think to myself, “Where the hell was my grandmother?”
Now that we’ve had The Syrup Incident, I realize how a few seconds is all it takes for a toddler to get into massive mischief.
The other morning, my son Henry asked for pancakes. Simple enough. We made them together, Henry mixing and I pouring in a picture-perfect scene with the sun shining, just short of squirrels and birds scampering in to help and sing a song.
Henry ate them with gusto, and even was eating his side serving of fruit too. I left him at the table for a minute to use the restroom. I asked him things like, “Are you eating your mango?” and he replied, “Yum!” All seemed well.
Until I came out to realize he had reached the maple syrup and dumped the entire thing into his plate, and was happily eating syrup-drenched fruit.
I needed a moment. It was so darn cute, but I knew I shouldn’t encourage it. I may have cracked a smirk. I went to grab a wet towel.
When I came back, he had dumped his entire cup of soy milk on the plate, too.