Dinner time

Elizabeth and I had a discussion about whether me contributing 23 chromosomes makes Megan half mine. I said it is like I provided half the blueprints for a building and Elizabeth provided the other half, the labor, materials, and all other construction costs. Plus since birth, she has provided the lion's share of the child rearing. So I maintain she is more responsible for Megan's behavior than I.

What, pray tell, precipitated this conversation?

We were sitting down to a lovely dinner Elizabeth fixed--marinated chicken, peas, and baked potatoes. Elizabeth dutifully made Megan a peanut butter sandwich, gave her her some peas, a glass of water, and at Megan's insistence, some pickles. It seems, though, that what Megan really wanted was soup. She smushed the peas between her fingers and threw them into her water, smiling with delight each time. Pea soup, I thought. Then she smashed the peanut butter sandwich in her face, leaving a dignified peanut butter mustache, and submerged it into the soup. Peanut butter and pea soup? No, she can't be hungry; She is just playing, we thought. At last, Megan Triumphantly raises her pickle high into the air. Like a graceful cliff-diver, the pickle plunges into the soup. Megan repeats this process several times, but each time she raises the pickle offering to the gods she decides that they want her to have it instead. So one bite at a time she finishes her peanut butter sandwich and pea soup soaked pickle.

That is what started the discussion. Which one of us is responsible for this little mess. What ended the conversation is when Megan picked up the cup and downed about half of the concoction. Elizabeth and I both almost puked. Megan on the other hand thought it was just fine and took another swig.