In case you haven't yet finalized your nomination of me for the Mother of the Year Award, please, make sure you add this to your rapturous essay about my myriad qualifications for this great honor.
I didn't much feel like cooking dinner the other night. When David called to tell me he was on the way home, I mentioned this, and he said he'd be happy eating a cheese sandwich and some soup.
I thought, "I can do grilled cheese sandwiches. That's easy enough. And I can use up this bread and the last of the cheese, too."
So I buttered up a stack of slices of wheat bread and slapped the first sandwich into the frying pan. When it was nice and golden brown, I slid it onto a plate and cut it into four golden triangles of destiny (er, that's a joke from Sesame Street...it's a takeoff on Indiana Jones) and served it to my son who fell upon it like he hadn't eaten in a week.
I waited to grill the other two sandwiches until David arrived home a few minutes later. When he came in, I started to drop the second sandwich into the pan...and then noticed that half the top slice of bread was mottled in mold. Ack!
David peered over my shoulder and shuddered. Then he said, "Ew, throw that away!" And then he sighed because his dinner was ruined. I examined the other pieces of bread and didn't see any other visible patches of mold, but I couldn't tell for sure under all that butter. I pitched both ungrilled cheese sandwiches in the trash can and wondered unhappily what else I could come up with at the last minute.
At the exact same moment, we both realized that, oh my God, William already had one of those sandwiches! We spun around to look at him as he crammed the last bit of the penicillin sandwich in his mouth and smiled a big cheerful cheese sandwichy grin.
(Please note that I waited to post this little anecdote until we were reasonably sure he wasn't going to expire. He's as hale and hearty as ever, two days later. And bacteria-free, too.)
Don't get too busy, now, to submit my name for MOY. Two weeks. That's all you've got left.