Boogers


Josh grilled burgers.  They were done and ready before the buns were completely defrosted.  So while Josh gathered up the children, I stood over the toaster oven, rotating bun halves through.  It was taking awhile, both with the buns and with Simon, who was being goofy and uncooperative for Josh, on the other side of the house.

All of a sudden, Simon comes running into the kitchen, “NO, MAMA!  DON’T DO IT!”

Startled, I look down at him, trying to figure out where on earth he’s coming from.

He gives me the cutest sheepish grin, and tries to snatch the buns from my hands.  “Mama, please don’t put fingernails in my burger.”

I rescue the buns, still trying to figure out this randomness.  A suspicion grows.  “JOSH!  What did you say to him!?”

Josh grins, “What?  It’s not what you think!”  He pauses, before he clarifies, “I said boogers.  I don’t know where he got fingernails.”

It was longer than that before he explained that he’d told Simon I was putting the burgers together, and told him I might put boogers on there if he didn’t hurry in there and tell me what he really wanted.

Tricksy hobbitses, messing with the precious.  Simon’s burgers are serious business.

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