I am eating my third (yes, that’s ONE-TWO-THREE) yogurt of the day.
I love yogurt, don’t get me wrong, but today’s trio of fruity-delight cups have been rescued from Anthony’s dextrous hands, and, ultimately, prevented from being used as weapons of mass destruction.
The strawberry one was spread over the tablecloth in a thin layer, and he was pressing toys and napkins into it. Perhaps he was sculpting a landscape, but really, dried yogurt = glue. I chiseled his sticky mess off the table and threw it away.
The peach one was used as some sort of cold cream, spread ear to ear and forehead to chin, and then “kissed” all over the doors, walls and windows. Again, dried yogurt = glue. And gloppy face-prints aren’t nearly as adorable as they sound.
The third, blueberry, was confiscated before any mischief could be identified, but I’m confident I’ll find something somewhere. I always do.
On the bright side, I’ll have met not only my dairy RDA, but my fruit one, as well.