I’ll tell you what the hell that is.
That is photographic proof of cherub torture.
Every morning since Gabe-the-Self-Proclaimed-Perfect-Boy became an only child…
Okay, technically he is not an only child (and we have the college tuition bills to prove it), but ever since he became the only child that we wake up to, in our house, on a regular basis…
So ever since Gabe has become an only child, the Nearly Perfect Husband has been making a big fat hairy deal out of him at breakfast time.
Sure, Gabe enjoys his daily, fresh-off-the-Dingle-Diner-grill delectable breakfast goodies, every day before school, but there is a dark side to all this spoiling and attention.
This is not an altruistic effort on John’s part to repair the fractured psyche of a boy who drew the ‘whoops, another kid’ straw, thus leaving him open to accusations of ‘mistake!’ and ‘Fed-Ex!’ from his astonishingly perfect older siblings.
This is cherub torture.
Pure and simple.
How do I know this?
Because my Nearly Perfect Husband will all but crow his attention to detail, relative to his breakfast creations, far and wide – via text, talk, and e-mail – to the other two and a half cherubs every chance he gets.
And that’s not all.
He makes lunch too.
A transcript of one side of a phone call I heard John having with First-Born-Mac not so long ago (absolutely true, and reconstructed to the best of my abilities – I was sitting at the counter, not 10 feet from him, when this occurred):
“Oh, hi Moo*. What do you need? I can’t talk for long because I ran out of fresh bread for Gabe’s lunch. What? No. I buy those, like, half-cooked baguettes that you put in the oven. Ya. So they’re fresh. Ya. I make his sandwiches out of them. Yes I do. Anyway, I ran out so Gabe went to school without his lunch. No. No, so I have to go because I’m going to get Panera now and get his lunch and drop it off because he needs it before 10:30.”
Yes. You read that right.
John had run out of freshly baked ‘baguette’ (ya, he said it) for Gabe’s sandwich that morning, so as a consolation lunch he was going to Panera, getting Gabe’s favorite Panera sandwich (and chips and a pickle, I’m sure) and dropping it off at the high school before Gabe’s appointed lunch time.
Sure, a little.
To torture Mac?
When Mac got home for her last break, it was the talk of the Dingle Diner counter. Number-One-Son-Sam and Half-Kid-Jack were stunned.
And completely jealous.
Gabe raised his uber-long arms above his six-foot-four-inch body, in a sort of mock, slow-motion stretch and smiled.
The kid knows he’s got it good.
He could care less that his good fortune is a by-product of intended torture.
He’s the baby.
He deserves it.
And we just love him so, so, so much….
See, even Moms enjoy a little cherub torture once and a while.
Hi Mac! Hi Sam! Hi Jack!
Have a great day!
Thanks for readin’.
*as in ‘Mackey Moo’ (Dad’s can do that)
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