My son learned from a very early age the art of climbing because in his case it paid off in such obvious rewards. Normally I’ll hear my son rustling around and tearing into a bag of pretzels or a box of granola bars, but on this particular occasion, after he climbed up on the counter and swung open the cabinet doors, all I heard was silence. I knew trouble wouldn’t be far behind.
I snuck into the kitchen and poked my head around the corner and was mortified by the horror that I saw. My son had huge tubes of icing in each hand and he was squeezing the shit inside, double-fisted into his mouth. The sugary rainbow colored slime overflowed from his mouth and dripped onto his shirt. After he managed to swallow every last bit that coated his teeth, tongue and lips, and not wanting to waste a single drop, he pushed a section of his shirt collar into his mouth.
I couldn’t even yell at him or try and make him stop. He was a car wreck that I couldn’t prevent from happening, and one I couldn’t turn away from and stop myself from looking at.