I swear, he really doesn't

There is this interesting phenomenon that occurs in our house when Craig and Kate are left alone. Without fail, I hear a shriek, a cry, a scream, or a crash. Inevitably, something is broken, bruised, damaged, or a combination of the above. The incident is never clear and neither party is quite sure what events transpired, or exactly who was responsible for the occurrence. These incidents range from minor spills on the just-donned church outfit to the nail impression in the forehead that was the lovely remnant of a deck fall. I’ve conferred that the fear of being in trouble, and corresponding immediate onset of amnesia, applies equally to both children and husbands.

As we were I was packing for our trip, Craig and Kate were sitting on the bed, watching a television show. Kate was eating a cereal bar that Craig was responsible for holding on to. Within minutes, with unbeknownst cause that neither party will admit to, the cereal bar ended up on the floor. An immediate meltdown ensued. In case you aren’t privy, things that touch the floor absolutely cannot be eaten because they are GROSS and DIRTY.

In an effort to get Kate to eat the cereal bar, and save him a trip downstairs to get another, Craig picked it up. He dramatically blew it off, declared it clean, and took a giant bite. Kate looked up wide-eyed at Craig and simultaneously declared, “Daddy likes dirty things!”

I cannot wait until Kate chooses the perfectly inopportune moment to declare this in some public manner. It is only a manner of time and will be one of those moments where I stammer and desperately try to explain that isn’t exactly what it sounds like. You know, one of those moments where people are looking at you, thinking “sure ...”