Last night's dinner consisted on bar-b-qued beef, asparagus and sweet potatoes. Harper got her plate of sweet potatoes and, after being told they were hot, proceeded to blow on them to cool them off.
In her version of blowing on her food, her hair blows up in the middle of her forehead and the food stays hot.
Once the succulent sweetness was cool enough she gripped it lightly in her fist and proceeded to squeeze the ever-loving crap out of it! As the gooey orange stickiness oozed from between her fingers, she got the sudden idea that her sister was hungry and may enjoy of a bite of sweet potato garnished with toddler fingers. We were able to put a stop to that, but not before a trail of potato was left between the table and the bouncer.
For my in depth feelings on this particular situation, see my post about textures.
After dinner, I took my lovely and beautiful daughter to the sink to wash her hands. My daughter has the soul of a cat which manifests itself in very bizarre ways. She doesn't land on her feet when she falls, she doesn't lick herself to get clean and she doesn't poop in a litter box (although that might be an improvement.)
She does, however, love running water and will play in it for hours, provided she doesn't have to get in it.
I turned on the faucet and she shrieked and reached for it. Since she is short with appropriately proportioned arms, she is unable to reach the water with both hands at once while being held at the sink. I leaned her to the right and stretched her left hand into the water, rinsing off the congealing potato. I had previously been unaware that unbuttered potatoes could congeal, but there you have it.
As I began to tilt her to the left to wash her other hand, said hand came into view from behind her body.
And by hand, I mean, of course, a 10 inch chef knife moving ever closer to the soft flesh of arm.
Through violence or sleep deprivation, my daughter is trying to kill me.
