Never Leave Your Kids Alone with a Nut

It could kill them.

Laylee has learned to shell her own peanuts by chewing the shell into tiny shards, spitting it all over my counter and then eating half of the peanut and dropping the other half on the ground.

I know very well from my pediatrician’s advice and the King James version of What to Expect that Magoo shouldest not cometh in contact with a nut or a nut product until he reacheth the age of two, lest he become a human incendiary device and explodeth into a firebomb of allergenic destruction and woe be unto him.  I think that’s almost a direct quote from the book.

He also has very few teeth and nuts are a huge choking hazard so I’ve taken great pains to make Laylee understand that there will be dire consequences for leaving peanuts around where he can get them.

Me:  Don’t drop the nuts on the floor!
Laylee:  Why?
Me:  Because Magoo’ll get ”˜em and they could make him very sick.
Laylee:  Why?
Me:  And he might even DIE!

So today, she’s actively destroying peanuts at the kitchen counter and Magoo attempts to climb up on her chair.

Laylee:  Magoo, NO!  You can’t eat peanuts because they’ll kill you…
[She raises her eyebrows and looks at me like a snooty librarian peeking over her reading glasses to say, “Boys, you should know better than that.”]
… and then you’ll die.

Her subtle warning is lost on the little jub who grunts and continues to pull himself up until she gently nudges him off to blam himself on the kitchen floor.

Five minutes later she asks, “Why will peanuts kill Magoo?”
Me:  [Because they’re sadistic, bloodthirsty and evil and they hate little round Jack-O-Lantern-headed boys.]  Because they are hard and round and they could choke him [to death with their bare hands].

Now peanuts are not the only things around here that have it in for poor Magoo.  He is also being ferociously hunted by walls, too long pants, and air currents.  He also needs to be protected from the shish.  I know, I know, I said that Magoo was going to kill the little shish, but it seems it may be the other way around.

This evening I walked into the livingroom to the sound of splashing and crunching, never a good combination.  Magoo had one hand in the fishbowl and his mouth was full of something blue and he was crunching away.  ACK!  JackAgain!  I rushed over and pulled from his mouth… some bluish aquarium rocks.  They’re round glass pebbles, big enough to clean easily and just the right size to block his airway completely if he breathes funny or tumbles off the couch, his preferred method of dismounting.

I'll get you, my shissy!Not good.  “No Magoo! NO SHISH!” I said seriously as I lifted him down and ran to get my camera.  I left the shish in place just long enough for him to climb back up so I could get this picture.  He looks menacing, but he’s the one in real danger, I promise.

In random CD news, can I tell you how much I am loving the Curious George soundtrack?  If I like it so much, why don’t I marry it?  Because I don’t believe in bigamy, and Dan has promised never to die, at the hands of a rogue peanut or otherwise… ever.  Thanks for asking. 

It’s like Jack Johnson is prancing through a sunny tropical jungle, when he comes across the essence of Simon, Garfunkel, Raffi, the early Beatles, and a kid-friendly Jimmy Buffet.  He bottles it, comes back to New York, gets some friends together and lays down a record one lazy afternoon. Happy, happy music my friends.

reasons: Laylee asleep with her arms outstretched completely trusting completely secure, the patio drenched in blue moonlight like it was lit on a soundstage

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