Sticky

Three days per week Megan goes to pre-school. So today, as we’re getting ready to roll, Molly walks up to me holding the bag of marshmallows I picked up last night. “Cookie” she says. “No, Molly. Those are for s’mores tonight.” “Cookie.” Her eyes are starting to get puffy. If I don’t tear that bag open right now she’s gonna melt.

“You can have one.” She’s happy. “Daddy, can I have one?” asks Megan. I’m too slow for the girls. “Sure.” “Can I have two?” Whatever.

Megan finishes hers and Molly’s still munching as I load them in the trailer. Up hill, headwind, all the way there. Drop off the Megan. Molly’s still munching. Roll home.

Half-way home Molly starts screaming. WTF? I crane my neck around and she’s got a third of the marshmallow stuck to her hand. It’s flailing violently back and forth and up and down trying to shake the sticky ball of mush off. It’s not going anywhere. She screams louder and I stop the bike. She’s covered in it – mouth, hands, face, dress, the seat in the trailer, the side window. And she’s mad! So I take it from her and now it’s stuck to me. Great. Now what?

I ate it and we rolled home.

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