Recipe for destruction

While typing up one of the blog posts this week, I was frequently leaning back in my chair to peek into the dining room where the kids were playing, all of 12 feet from me, and the following happened in the space of 2 minutes between peeks:

D- threw a giant rubber ball at M-'s Snack Trap cup full of Goldfish crackers, which jostled the lid loose. I had heard the ball throwing and scolded him, but he neglected to mention the result of said throw, which is out of character for him.

With the lid loose, M- was duty-bound to pull it the rest of the way off and silently (somehow) dump the crackers on the floor, and D- was curiosity-bound to watch without alerting me. M- proceeded to delicately stomp on each of the crackers while D- had a grand old time consistent with any unsuspicious and legal game of merriment.

And here's how aptly named our household routine is:

I leaned back over, saw the enormous mess all over the floor (luckily hardwood), and invoked M-'s full name in a stern voice. Without prompting, she immediately sat herself down (of course on some crackers that had survived the massacre up to that point), and quietly awaited my strides over to her. She greeted my arrival with as droll a recital of, "No, no, no" that a 1-year-old could possibly manage.

Employing parenting instincts so finely honed in the fire of raising a previous baby, rather than reacting to this magic word or dignifying her defiantly smug mockery, I simply said, "That's right-- 'No, no, no!' " I then lectured her as usual, finished rolling her in the cracker crumbs, and baked her for 45 minutes until golden brown.