Cheese Monster

            I joined a book club. It was started by my favourite duo from the podcast Stories We’d Tell in Bars. I was sucked in by the allure of more hilarity from these two beautiful women (Jen Lancaster and Gina B.) and the hope that I would get knocked out of my Songs of Ice and Fire (Game of Thrones to the uninitiated) loop. I’ve read that series three times and am patiently waiting for George R. R. Martin to finish this epic saga.

            I was waiting on the books I put on hold at the library and found a recommendation that everyone seemed to be ranting about called Lie to Me by J.T. Ellison. It’s a thriller. It’s not bad. It took several weeks to get. I put off reading it religiously. It’s due tomorrow.

            The library sent me the reminder e-mail yesterday and I checked how many pages I had left to read. In short, half the book. I attempted to renew it. There is a massive line of people behind me waiting patiently. No dice on the renewal. So, there were two options left. Do as Elsa said and let it go. Or read the shit out of that book. I opted for option two.

            Where does the cheese come into this story? Well, I admit that by making my choice I went rogue on parenting. Again.

            The child was happy as a clam with too much screen time, as I read my book. But, as always happens with reading, a nap soon followed.

            “Mama, I’m hungry,” she said as she poked at my corpse like body.

            “Go find something to eat and don’t make a mess.” Clearly, I was mostly asleep and happy to remain that way. She scampered off to forage in the kitchen. I may have added something along the lines of have an apple, since there is no drama involved in her obtaining one off the counter.

            A few minutes later I heard banging around and the scraping of an unfamiliar object on another unfamiliar object in the kitchen. I assumed she had grabbed the stool out of the bathroom to make the arduous climb to her gummy worms. This strange sound made me wake up, but was not alarming enough to get out of bed to investigate. I went back to reading.

            About two chapters later (they’re short) she came upstairs and climbed back on the bed.

            “What did you eat?”

            “Cheese,” she replied as she stretched out taking up as much of the king size bed as her tiny tot body would allow (most of it).

            “Did you cut it?” I didn’t recall drawers being opened.

            “No.”

            “How did you eat the cheese,” she now had my full undivided attention.

            “I bit it.”

            “What now?”

            “I bit it.”

            “You just took the cheese out of the fridge and just went to town on it?”

            “Noooo.” She was beginning to think she was in trouble with my line of questioning. The lies began to flow. But how could I punish her for my dereliction of duty?

            “You’re not in trouble,” I said as I got out of bed to go to investigate. “You actually bit the cheese?”

            “Yep.” Now the pride was starting to shine through on her face.

            I went downstairs. On the counter was the generic zippy bag which had contained half of a large block of Cracker Barrel Old Cheddar cheese. Or Old Nippy (said with a boisterous old prospector voice) as it’s known in our house. The cheese was pushed out of the dog’s tongue destruction field radius. I was happy with that. I picked up the cheese and wrapper. The wrapper was soggy. The cheese had been mauled. She consumed an alarming chunk of what was left.

            My eyes drifted to the shelf with the laxative of days gone by. I briefly considered mixing up some “special juice” right then and there. I restrained myself. Instead, I laughed. Then I took a picture and sent it to Wade. Then I threw out the wrapper and amputated the well enjoyed remains of the cheese.

            She had the grace to wait twenty-four hours to request cheese again after finishing off the amputated leavings.

            When I asked her what she wanted to eat for dinner after the cheese incident, she requested carrots and cucumber. This rendered the laxative moot. So far.

            To add to this, today, I pulled the butter out to make her some lunch and it looked extremely chewed.

            “Did you eat the butter?”

            “Maybe Ringo ate it.”

            “Are you sure you didn’t eat it yesterday with the cheese?”

            “I didn’t eat it.”

            “Promise?” The pinkie was out. It’s the great deflater of lies. She stepped forward with confidence and curled her little pinkie around mine.

            “Promise.”

            I sent a text photo to Wade.

            He did it.

            Instead of grabbing a knife and being civilized, he got in touch with is inner caveman and tore off chunks of butter.

            You think you know someone.

            One minute they’re navigating life predictably, the next they’re manhandling butter in a way that looks like child bite marks. All in the interest of food lubrication.