A few days ago at breakfast, Finn got up abruptly and went to the refrigerator.
I suspected it was to get more maple syrup since I had just observed him carefully scooping the amount I had given him off of the top of his oatmeal and slurping it down.
“Finn,” I said.
“Don’t worry about me,” he said turning back with a hand in the air and a tone that sounded
more like a 14 than 4 year old.
He then lugged the quart container back and plopped it on the table.
“Please?” he said.
The battle of sweets is fought hard in this household.
Especially since my sweet tooth is the
size of Switzerland, Belgium and France combined.
And it’s the dark confection those countries are so good at that I tend to gravitate toward.
This has not gone unnoticed.
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