This morning Misty made cinnamon toast, which involves a thick paste of cinnamon sugar on top of bread. I know! We’re inventive around here.

There was one piece left, and Eli claimed it. Mind you, he was still playing with his one piece of toast, rubbing his fingers over the cinnamon and then sticking them in his mouth. So I opened my mouth and pretended to be about to eat the toast. “No, daddy! No! Don’t eat it!” he cried, so I retreated. “That is my piece of cinnamon toast.”

I am one of those fathers who cannot leave well enough alone and keep pestering their children and one day will end up cold and alone on the street. I moved towards the toast again. “Noooooo!” he cried, waving his hands over the plate with all of the toast, so I retreated again. Then he pulled that plate from me to him. “I will put this over here, how about.”

Later he forgot all about the toast, so I ate it. Dad wins again!