Last night I made an omelet for Babyman with an egg and some smoked gouda. He eyed it suspiciously as he climbed into his booster seat (Babyman and eggs have been on somewhat tenuous terms lately), but ultimately he tried it. “I like this omelet, Mommy!” he exclaimed. “This omelet is particularly tasty! Is there tasty cheese in it?”
(Babyman’s diction has gotten quite adult lately and it’s pretty hilarious. A couple of Sundays ago he looked at me across the breakfast table and said “Your dress is just beautiful, Mommy.” At the time, I was wearing a sweatshirt and pajama pants and had yet to comb my hair. But I don’t want to discourage a compliment, so I just thanked him profusely.)
Call me a sucker but I was just delighted at Babyman’s enjoyment of his eggs — especially since omelets are one of those “Wow, I have nothing in the house for dinner” meals — and we had a most pleasant conversation about Cars for the rest of the meal. He must have picked up on how well things were going, because he politely requested cookies for dessert.
“I think you can have a cookie tonight, love, but I need you to take two more bites of your omelet.”
Babyman responded by shoving the last two pieces of avocado in his mouth. Then he crossed his arms, and declared: “No, I’m all done Mommy. I don’t like omelets.”
Easy come, easy go!
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