Cutting Corners: Confession of a Hurried Dad

Dear Peanut,

I don't write you letters nearly as often as I'd like. This time, however, extenuating circumstances have forced me to come clean. Those circumstances mainly being my guilty conscience and... well, not much else. But before I come clean, I need to give you a warning: Be careful what you wish for.

Recently you switched your daily lunch request from chicken nuggets to peanut butter and jelly. You did so despite my mild protests. You see, my princess, it is a lot easier for me to make you a week's worth of nuggets on Sunday night, store them in the fridge, and gather four of them at a time every morning along with some peas and blueberries for a balanced and delicious lunch.

That's the special spreader.

On the other hand, making a fresh PB&J every morning while I'm rushing off to work is a mess and a hassle. The bread, the ingredients, the special PB&J spreader. (Yes, there is such a thing and we have one.) The crumbs on the counter. Not to mention the biggest hassle of them all: the removal of the crust. (Quickly followed by the subsequent ingestion of the crust because daddy doesn't like to waste food.) On top of all of that, add to the equation a spoiled dog who believes she is entitled to peanut butter any time the jar is taken out of the pantry.



So of course I cut corners. Literally and figuratively. You should know that when I cut the crusts off your sandwich, I do so purely out of love because I know that's how you like demand it. It's an added step that could potentially cause me to miss my bus because now I'm really cutting it dangerously close. But the fact that I cut off your crusts is really no secret. The secret is what I do afterwards, right before I pop them in my mouth or put them in a baggie to take to work and snack on at my desk. (If I have time.)

Why let that go to waste?

You see, Peanut, even though I'm racing against time. Even though I'm risking tardiness that could throw my entire morning's work flow, and the production of the quality news program I run into complete anarchy, I still need to keep a neat kitchen. And I am still looking out for you. I don't want runaway peanut butter and/or jelly to escape following crust removal. I don't want it to drip on the counter. And most important, I don't want your cute little hands to get any stickier and messier than necessary while you're enjoying your homemade-with-love PB&J at school. So I do something to prevent the messes on both of our ends:

I lick your sandwich in a hasty yet delicious act of desperation, frenzy, and love.

Yes, licks of love.

As I said before, I make peanut butter and jelly for you, out of love. I cut the crusts off for you, out of love. Therefore, I lick your lunch, out of love.

A + B = C.

Made with love.

Just think of that next time I kiss you and you complain my breath stinks.

You're welcome.

Love,
Dad

P.S. Remember: Be careful what you wish for.

This is just one more thing we've had to adjust to since Peanut started Kindergarten, as I first wrote about HERE.