Yesterday, after Justin's nap and while Papa was still at Church, Justin and I sat down to wrap presents. Or rather, I sat and he stood. He rolled (and wrinkled) wrapping paper, played with ribbons, considered swiping the scissors, and systematically crushed a small gold bow I gave him to prevent him from crushing all the others. A good time was had by all.
But I got hungry, so I put some muffins in the oven. When the twenty-minute timer went, I checked them. Predictably, they had some browning to do, but they were cooked all the way through, so I took one out as a snack to tide me over. This, however, caused an imbalance in the snack force, previously neatly tied with mozzarella sticks and grapes for Justin and smoked gouda and grapes for me. Justin wanted some of my muffin.
"No," I told him, "It's hot."
He insisted.
"But it's hot."
He pointed at the muffin and requested some emphatically.
"Fine," I said, "but be careful; it's hot."
I tore off a small piece and gave it to him. "Hot," I warned again.
Usually he handles a piece of food for a minute and then realizes it's too warm for him, sets it down somewhere and comes back later. But this one popped straight into his open mouth. It stayed open. His eyes widened. For a second he tried to breathe around it. Then he began to cry.
"I told you it was hot!" I pleaded.
"Waaah!" said Justin, and spit out the muffin on the carpet.
I picked it up and put it in his bowl. He hadn't chewed it at all. When it cooled down, it would be fine. Five minutes later, the timer on the oven went off and I went to get the muffins out. I was still hungry so I got myself another one and came back to the present-wrapping. Justin asked for some.
"But it's hot!" I protested. "Eat yours!"
Justin explained the situation patiently. That one was hot; he had tried it. He wanted some of mine. I saw his point, but I refused to share. Eventually, he ate his muffin.