Doots is our little budding chef. He loves to help in the kitchen. He’ll play happily on the floor while I make dinner, stirring his toys into wonderful plastic meals in our old pots and saute pans, but soon he’s crawling up my legs and squawking for me to pick him up. He’s not content to watch from a highchair or the floor, oh no – he needs to be right in the action.
I have held him on my hip to watch me stir, sometimes carefully letting him help, ever since he was old enough to be interested in it. He loves it. He points and squeals and lunges in for a closer look. He also tries to touch. For the past six months I’ve been able to keep him away from the pans, telling him “Hot!”, catching those lightening-quick chubby hands in time. Still, what happened a few days ago was probably inevitable.
Nice burn right? And this means no more watching from my hip. He is not happy to say the least. Woe is the doots!
You don’t understand, his dreams of chefdom are smashed.
Young life is now meaningless.
Hey wait, this is a toy.
All is well once again! We have discovered a new game. It is called: let’s balance things on Peter’s head.