When I picked up Mo-Dizzle from school yesterday, I asked her how her day went.
“Oh, it was good,” she said, buckling herself into her seat. “I left you a note in my lunchbox about my sandwich, though.”
“Huh?” I asked, wheeling us out of the carpool lane and into traffic. “What happened to your sandwich?”
“Nothing, I just didn’t eat it. I left you a note about it.” she repeated and then promptly severed communication by sticking her nose in a Magic Tree House Book.
Fast forward to the great unload from the car: backpacks, library books, assorted jackets, sweaters, and stray papers. As girls hung up their stuff, I opened up the lunchboxes. In Morgan’s lunchbox, I found the aforementioned note:
“I do not like crasty sandwichs.”
What the devil? What happened to her sandwich between last night when I made it and this afternoon when she was supposed to have eaten it? I popped the top of the sandwich keeper to find this:
Unblemished (uneaten) PBJ
“Morgan!” I called, holding the “offending” sandwich out in front of me. “What’s the matter with this? Why didn’t you eat it?”
(insert exasperated six-year old eye roll) “I don’t like crasty sandwiches! Next time, will you please cut off the crast?”
Crast? Crust! Cut off the crust! Oh, good lord.
Request for crast-less sandwiches duly noted. And far be it from me to waste a perfectly good PBJ, so
guess who had a “crast-less” PBJ for dinner?
Here’s a hint: she’s six years old and has a wicked eye roll.