Sandbox muses prompt 1: How high can you reach
Frankie at 3
Frankie wanted a cookie.
He always wanted cookies.
He liked to scrupoulously separated the chocolate chips from the dough, and first eat the crumbs, and leave the choc chips for last. He'd do it slowly, carefully, sitting in a corner of the kitchen, taking his time, because it had to be done right.
Mama never let him have chocolate by itself, it wasn't good for his teeth, she said, so Frankie had fund his own way around it. He liked chocolate. He always washed his teeth after eating it, because he wanted to be a good boy, wanted his Mama to be proud of him, so he told her, he'd wash his teeth morning and evening , after dinne and after lunch, and after the chocolate, he would, if Mama'd let him eat the chocolate.
But Mama Roberts had her own way of doing things, and what Frankie was willing to promise wasn't relevant. Chocolalte was bad for little boys, bad for their teeth, the dentist was expensive, and she was tired, she was busy, she was occupied, preoccupied. She was. Frankie wasn't.
So he started to wait for her Mama's afternoon nap. Drag the chair to the cupboard, not too fast so it wouldn't screech on the floor. Kneel on the chair first. Grab the chair's back with his hands, stand up. Open the top right cabinet door. Grab the cookie jar. Push towards himself, a little. Grab it with both hands, surely. Lowers himself to kneel again, the wooden chair-seat cold on his knees. Step down, place the jar on the seat, open it, take two cookies. Always two. Mama would know, otherwise. She would notice the difference in the numbers of cookies. Then all of it again, to put the cookie jar back, the lid carefully closed. Placed exactly where it was.
Crumb, choc chip. Crumb, choc chip. Crumb crumb, crumb, choc chip.
One by one, his little fingers picked them all up, separated them, made two neat little heaps.
Frankie knew exactly how high he could reach. It all depended on what tables and chairs were around.
Frankie wanted a cookie.
He always wanted cookies.
He liked to scrupoulously separated the chocolate chips from the dough, and first eat the crumbs, and leave the choc chips for last. He'd do it slowly, carefully, sitting in a corner of the kitchen, taking his time, because it had to be done right.
Mama never let him have chocolate by itself, it wasn't good for his teeth, she said, so Frankie had fund his own way around it. He liked chocolate. He always washed his teeth after eating it, because he wanted to be a good boy, wanted his Mama to be proud of him, so he told her, he'd wash his teeth morning and evening , after dinne and after lunch, and after the chocolate, he would, if Mama'd let him eat the chocolate.
But Mama Roberts had her own way of doing things, and what Frankie was willing to promise wasn't relevant. Chocolalte was bad for little boys, bad for their teeth, the dentist was expensive, and she was tired, she was busy, she was occupied, preoccupied. She was. Frankie wasn't.
So he started to wait for her Mama's afternoon nap. Drag the chair to the cupboard, not too fast so it wouldn't screech on the floor. Kneel on the chair first. Grab the chair's back with his hands, stand up. Open the top right cabinet door. Grab the cookie jar. Push towards himself, a little. Grab it with both hands, surely. Lowers himself to kneel again, the wooden chair-seat cold on his knees. Step down, place the jar on the seat, open it, take two cookies. Always two. Mama would know, otherwise. She would notice the difference in the numbers of cookies. Then all of it again, to put the cookie jar back, the lid carefully closed. Placed exactly where it was.
Crumb, choc chip. Crumb, choc chip. Crumb crumb, crumb, choc chip.
One by one, his little fingers picked them all up, separated them, made two neat little heaps.
Frankie knew exactly how high he could reach. It all depended on what tables and chairs were around.