This is the story of the time my youngest son tried to help me make dinner and my eternal quest to not curse in front of the children.
My youngest is a giant among the two and a half year old crowd, but even still he is just shorter than the kitchen counter. He looooooves the kitchen counter. The counter holds food both salty and sweet, snackable and meal type alike. He wanted to see what sort of culinary joy I was a bringing him. He wanted to see it right. friggin. now.
So he got a stool. A tiny little stepping stool we picked up at Ikea years ago. It and I have never had a problem before.
The kid hauls it from the opposite side of the house to the kitchen, pushes me out of the way of the counter and drops it. Continue reading