My parents love to tell the story of a morning when my brother and I (when we were much younger, of course), made breakfast for ourselves. First, we dumped a bunch of Cheerios on the floor. Then, we poured the milk.
Oh yes, milk, right on the floor, digging in happily.
My mother (as she tells it), had to back up after seeing the mess to laugh before coming out to scold us.
This morning, Kansas Dad and I had a preview of that breakfast from the other side. We let the kids get up and stayed in bed for a few minutes, talking. Suddenly, we heard First Son, "Oh! You have the Cheerios!"
Then we heard the box emptying on to the carpet, just as I was saying, "She's probably going to dump those out." She didn't make a nice neat pile, though. She shook that bag so Cheerios spread for feet in all directions.
It wasn't too bad, being Cheerios. It helped that Kansas Dad helped her pick up the mess, not me. I couldn't help thinking, though, that if she'd gotten out the milk and poured it on my first instinct would not have been to laugh!
