It all starts with toast.
My three year old son wants the crust cut off.
No problem. I cut the crust. I know better than to cut the bread in half — I made that mistake yesterday.
But this time he does want it cut in half.
No problem. I cut the toast in half, two triangles.
Now he wants more butter.
Also, no problem.
But now the butter has melted, and he can’t see that it’s there.
And now he doesn’t want our dog looking at him. Or his seven year old sister. Or me.
An orange toddler fork gets thrown to the floor, making a surprisingly loud smack, accompanied by our son’s piercing shriek.
Our dog howls along with him.
The dog always howls along with the kids when they cry.
And that’s how it all starts.