Tattletales and a booby monster meets meat

Tonight I gave E a chip sized piece of boiled chicken with her usual pureed dinner vegie combo (yes! she has suddenly started eating from a spoon! and someone in this house likes my cooking!).

You could hear the choir of angels singing the nanosecond flesh met tastebuds.

And yea verily, all was good. Finger licking good.

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I am living with a tattletale. The instant mr hissychick walked in the door A told him:

"Mummy has been very naughty daddy. She 'sploded when she was cooking our dinner..and..and she said naughty words and I was scared and said please mummy stop".

Oh what fun to have a child, not yet three ("how many sleeps mummy?') with such an extensive vocabulary with which to condemn my inadequacies.

Mr hissy just looked at me, eyebrows raised.

Once we had the little dibber dobber out of earshot I explained that after running late from daycare I was trying to rush dinner preparations and managed to burn myself with some hot oil. Naturally I hollered and uttered an expletive. Then I had to calm little miss down, reassuring her that I was not angry at her while running my arm under some cold water to ease the pain.

I think I now understand why she calls me Homer. Asking to see my jelly belly this evening merely confirmed it.

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While I am at it, I am going to shamelessly plug mr hissychick's blog for this absolutely hilarious post on playing favourites. I am also hoping to elicit your sympathy because by reading it you may gain some insight into why I am the way I am.

Our poor children.