Peanut butter. And banana. On white bread. I am five years old again, only this time I’m not picking off the banana slices.
The only member of this family more addicted to peanut butter than me is the dog. If he so much as hears me touch the plastic lid on the Jiffy jar, he attaches himself to my leg and rolls his eyes up at me in his most pathetic, mommy-don’t-you-love-me plea.
Today I scraped the last bit of peanut butter out of the jar for my own sandwich and looked down at his pitiful little face. “Sorry, bud.” I said, and his peanut-lovin’ heart broke right in two.
Caught (as I often am) in the middle of a struggle between Right Mom and Righteous Mom, I contemplated the empty container. Behold, here in the palm of my hand the two things Finnegan adores: peanut butter and plastic.
Now he’s curled up in his crate with his front paws wrapped lovingly around the jar, his tongue snaking around after the last smears of creamy goodness. The expression in his eyes reminds me of an Atkins dieter on a carbohydrate binge.
Most of the time I'm just one bad day away from lying in the middle of the floor with my own nose embedded in the recesses of a peanut butter jar. Don't act like we all haven't been there.