When I got in from working on the fence lines the other day, I saw Marie had just finished pouring the rest of the cream-of-wheat in to the last of the four bowls on the counter. After teasing her about not making any for me when, of course, she knew I wouldn't want any because I never do, she put the bowls on the table and called the boys in to eat.
Almost immediately, John rushed over to eat his. As I walked past him, I noticed him stick the very tip of his finger into the messy goo. By the time I was behind him he had yanked his finger out of the bowl. In his shock and confusion, the only thing he was able to do was hold his his wrist with his unhurt hand while staring at the hurt one and shout with a grin of embarrassment on his face, "OW! OW! OW!"
I quickly rushed over to his side grabbed his hand and pushed his finger into my mouth.
"Ohhhh....Tank you," he said in a rolling sigh of relief. And as I walked away, I heard him quietly repeating to himself in a playful manner while shaking his chubby little hand, "Ow. Ow. Ow."
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