The Manifesto Against Peanut Butter

Saturday morning, early. The sun has just come up. It's one of my favorite times of the week. Not because of seeing the sun come up or the early morning silence. It's because I don't have to wear pants and this family enjoys not wearing pants. It's a trend that Hossmom started when we first got married and I try to encourage it.

There is no such thing as early morning silence in this house or any house with young children. The only time it is quiet is at 3 am. I have to set my alarm to enjoy that part of the day. This morning my son decided that sleep is for wimps so he woke up at 6:30 and demanded breakfast. He is so going to pay for this when he is a teenager.

I don't mind getting up early, I let Hossmom sleep in most week end days. I'll get my nap in the afternoon if I'm lucky. I'll sleep curled up in the fetal position so as to protect my groin from any toddler that decides to go Hulk Hogan off the top rope. After a couple of years of practice I find that napping like this is oddly comfortable.

Breakfast is done and now I'm sitting on the living room chair with my boy. We are both rocking underwear this morning. He is sporting the Sponge Bob briefs this morning while I got my pirate boxers on. We make a pretty damn cool pair. One day he is going to ask me to go with him to pick up chicks. I'll decline of course, out of respect for Hossmom, but I'll appreciate the thought.

Jake and the Neverland Pirates is on the T.V. which is fine by me. It gives me time to check the news on my phone. Bubba Hoss doesn't stay immobile long when we are like this. He shifts alot. Eventually he'll go all limp on me and just fall to the floor. He'll pick himself up and climb back on my chest or stomach and we'll start the routine again. I've learned to get used to it and now I can't get comfortable unless a toddler foot is hitting the side of my cheek. All in all, life is good this morning. Calm or as calm as we get in this house. My only complaint is my allergies that have started to go all haywire but I roll with it. I've got a tissue stuck up my nose. Sexy. Control yourself ladies.

I put my hand down on my shirt and that's when I rub my hand in peanut butter. I'm no longer a fan of peanut butter. In fact, I think that I am starting to hate that kid staple. For most kids, peanut butter is mana from heaven. If my children made the food pyramid, it would consist of peanut butter toast, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and then just straight peanut butter out of the jar. This last one would be a the top of the food pyramid and would be represented by one giant gooey finger.

But as I parent, I am pretty close to declaring a jihad on it. Or a crusade or whatever religious war like event that I can because I am pretty damn tired of it. I'll convert to whatever religion that doesn't allow peanut butter. I know it's harsh but I feel that other parents are going to understand the manifesto I'm going to unleash on peanut butter.

First off, there is to much weight to anything covered in peanut butter. Toast by itself does not fly through the air that well. Peanut Butter toast flys remarkable well and has the unique ability to instantly stick to anything it's thrown at, like the wall or my head.

Second, dried peanut butter is a bitch. It's like a cancer, you can't get it all. Even if you clean up after every meal like a good parent, cough cough, you'll still miss some of it. You'll miss it because it ends up places that you usually don't clean up after dinner like the underside of tables, more walls and on grandma's antique china hutch. Dried peanut butter works as a great stain stripper. Bet you didn't know that, did you? Works like a charm. It takes off the stain and if you are really lucky, half of the antique molding as well. I keep a putty knife in my kitchen drawer just for this purpose, peanut butter clean up. I have a potato peeler, an apple slicer, and a putty knife. I'm a very prepared dad.

Which brings me to my final point about the evils of peanut butter. No matter how small amount that you use on whatever peanut butter delivery device you've chosen, it will not stay there. For some reason, one of the stickiest substances on earth, refuses to contain itself within it's bread boundaries. I did some research and somehow the very existence of peanut butter bends the laws of physics so that it can't be contained. That's why they don't allow peanut butter in prisons, gives the inmates to many ideas.

So it's no surprise that I find a healthy helping of it on my shirt this morning. I've only been up for 30 minutes and already I need to change my shirt. But I don't want to, I will not give in to the peanut butter menace. Besides, I'm doing more yard work today so I don't think I will be running into the Queen of England in my front yard of dead weeds. So I just start rubbing it in and spreading out the damage. Face it, we've all done something like this. Just rub the stain a little with your hand and like magic, it darkens and becomes only a miner stain. And if not, bam, you have a work shirt. It's truly scary how awesome I am at times.

So in conclusion: I hate peanut butter more than anything in the world. Ever.

Little Hoss finally has woken up at the late hour of 7:30 and comes stumbling downstairs. I know what's about to happen because it happens this way every Saturday morning. She'll say she's hungry and I'll show her the breakfast that I made for her on the table. Then Bubba Hoss will say he's hungry again and I'll do the morning routine all over again.

"Dad" she says. "I'm hungry."

"Good morning baby" I reply. "Go to the table and you can have your peanut butter toast. I'll get you milk in a second."

She walks over and looks at the table. "Dad! Where's the toast? There's no toast, only Chicos (that's what we call cereal. I don't know why.)"

That's odd. Didn't I make peanut butter toast this morning? I must have, I have peanut butter on my shirt that I've spent a good 10 minutes rubbing in.

"Are you sure baby?" I ask, maybe the cat ate it. Wouldn't be surprised.

"DAD! NO! Don't be silly!"

Bubba Hoss jumps off my lap. As he is running towards his sister I see his little Sponge Bob underwear from behind. They are bulging. Then there is a lot more "peanut butter" running up his back.

God Dammit.

In the business, this is what we call a blowout. And it happened in the perfect storm of conditions. Early morning weekend, a tired father who couldn't remember what he made for breakfast, and allergies that have blocked his sense of smell.

I have found something that I hate worse than peanut butter but right now I have to take a shower like the guy in the Crying Game and burn my clothes which, I now notice, are covered with more peanut butter. Oddly chunky peanut butter.

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