The kids have figured out that they can wander the house on Saturday mornings without worrying about being eaten by a grue (as long as it’s light outside). Generally speaking, this is all right: it lets me catch a few extra minutes of sleep, and there’s only so much trouble they can get into in the house.
A couple of weeks ago, however, I thought they might have actually done themselves some harm. I could hear them scurrying around and whispering among themselves, and then I heard them make a quick dash back to their room and close the door. Figuring that wasn’t a good sign, I hauled myself out of bed, lumbered down the hall and opened the door. Julia was quick and/or aware enough to jump into bed and under the covers. Joe was caught in the middle of the room staring at me like a deer in headlights. His lips were ringed with some sort of sticky white substance.
At first, I thought they might have gotten into the dishwasher detergent, drunk the toilet bowl cleaner, or swallowed lithium batteries. But then I noticed a sweet, pastry scent that hung in the air. And then I remembered the box of powdered mini-donuts that Julie had brought home earlier in the week.
Relieved of the worry that they might have burned through their esophagi with lye, I settled in for an always-fun child-rearing activity: performing an interrogation when the information ostensibly being sought is known a priori.
Julia hung tough for a few minutes. She stayed under the blanket, where she didn’t have to look me in the eyes. Joe, on the other hand, had nowhere to turn. After just two stern queries about what they had been doing and a colorful allusion to the terrible fate that might befall him had he consumed something poisonous the wrong thing, he finally blurted out, “Daddy, we just ate milk cakes.”
Somehow, I managed to avoid cracking up right then and there.
Occasional Dispatches from San Jose 