peevish mama

This past Saturday, our lovely friends had us over for a lovely barbeque in their lovely backyard.  I should have known something was up when Saint James asked for exactly eleven grapes.  He proceeded to stuff them all in his mouth, one by one, and just as I was about to bust his little seven year old balls, I noticed that our friends’ daughter, Little E, was giggling her head off.  He was clearly doing it to impress her, which is heart clutchingly cute.  So I bit my tongue and looked away so he could hone his rudimentary flirtation skills.  The next thing I knew, Saint James had barfed a neat little pile of chewed up brat and grapes on the table.  I’m sure he was mortified enough without the addition of my operatic yodel of surprise and clumsy napkin-in-hand-across-the-table-swoop-in.  

I’m not sure what Little E thought about any of this, but her three year old brother now thinks Saint James is a total rock star.

And here I was worried he might choke to death.