Why is it early in the morning, when I’m not quite awake, Nostalgia decides to invite herself over for coffee?
She sits down opposite me, and asks in her sing-songy voice, “Remember the peanut butter monster under the dining table?”
One eye open, I look puzzled at her as I slowly look under the table … nothing there.
(Good, no traps to set.). Satisfied, I go back and enjoy another sip of my tea.
Slightly annoyed, she looks back at me. “The boys were small — Chef was still in nappies.” (diapers)
DING! The light came on. “Ohh, THAT!” I groan, cradling my head as the memory flooded back in like a mudslide. “That was a mess.”
Peanut butter EVERYWHERE: the six-foot area of carpeting under the Oak table, up the table legs, up the chair legs, across the underside of the table … and Chef, sat in the middle of it, as though lathered in Calamine lotion — inside and out. And his diaper didn’t provide anything except a kangaroo pocket to stash more peanut butter!
Two kilos, used like paint, with nothing left to salvage from the jar — and we thought he was sleeping in his playpen; he was quiet.
“That reminds me,” I reply back to her. “Where on Earth were you?”
“Sorry, Love,” she chirps, patting my free hand that rests upon the table. “Gotta go!” She then flutters across the floor like a graceful twirling leaf falling in autumn. “See you soon, Dearie, I’m off to Australia!”
Australia? I shake my head and take another sip of my tea.
Lord help them!
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