Peanut Butter

I find peanut butter everywhere. I find it wiped on the floor, smeared on the wall, plastered on the doorknobs and, of course, covering my son’s face, hands and clothes. "G" is 21 months old. He loves peanut butter sandwiches. He eats them almost every day. I don’t think I have ever bought more peanut butter in my life. The problem is that he is messy. He’s a messy, noisy, on-the-go boy. But he’s just so cute. Even though he has a peanut butter beard, I still can’t resist when he says, “Mama! Kiss!”  He puckers his lips and leans toward me, and I am won over by his big blue eyes, chubby cheeks and cute little lips. I let him kiss me. Now I have peanut butter on my face. It could be worse. It could be poop… and having poop on my face is not as totally unlikely as it seems. Come to think of it, I have had poop on my face. Peanut butter is much better.