We made a lot of french toast for Owen's birthday brunch. There were leftovers, so we froze them for future use as a quick breakfast option.
This morning, Chris offered the boys french toast for breakfast. They agreed, though they would probably agree to eat paper if it had syrup on it.
So Chris pops the frozen slices in the toaster. And then apparently goes for a jog or checks his email or something. Because the french toast he deposited onto the breakfast plates was way less french and a lot more toast.
Which isn't really, in and of itself, a problem. Like I said, the boys don't care, as long as he remembered the syrup, which he did.
Except that Sam's been ornery lately.
The problem was that the plastic fork he was using was completely inadequate to the task of stabbing one of his little bites of extra-crispy french toast. So, WHAAAAAAA
I told him to just pick it up with his fingers. But then his HANDS would get all STICKY, WHAAAAAA.
How about he try a different fork? But he wants to use THIS FORK, WHAAAAAAAA.
So he starts violently stabbing the french toast with the fork until the tines start popping off and flying across the room, and then I was like, "Whew. I was just thinking this room was strangely devoid of small pieces of danger for Lilly to find and put in her mouth."
But Sam found the broken tines to be immensely entertaining so he cheered up. Enough to come and give me a great big kiss on my back. Which is nice except now my SHIRT is all STICKY, WHAAAAA.