Cheerio Mayhem

If you've ever had a one year old in your house then you know what I'm talking about. Two months ago, when Dave and I discovered their invaluable utility, I could have been a Cheerio spokeswoman. Suddenly, we could take her out to dinner and for an hour she would be utterly transfixed by the oat-flavored spheres. Cheerios brought tranquility to meal time. But the jig is up. She is on to us. Cheerios no longer appease her appetite or her curiosity. When Amelia sees me coming with the yellow box in my hand, she shakes her head from side to side as if to say, "you don't get it, do you? I'm over those things." Still, I get desperate. So, occasionally, I'll toss a few on her tray, just until I can get dinner ready. From across the room, I can see the look in her eye, the look that says, "oh yeah? I'll show you," as she daintily picks up one Cheerio at a time and drops them onto the floor. Tonight, as I write, Amelia is sleeping soundly in the next room and the dinner dishes are done; all is right with the world. Except for the sea of forsaken Cheerios that lay in waste on my kitchen floor.