The back story:
Sunday mornings are always a bit of a challenge. I like to try to sleep in at least one day on the weekend; something that hasn't happened effectively since my son was born nearly a year ago. My daughter has always insisted on breakfast, ideally pancakes, muffins, or some other home-cooked meal for Sunday breakfast. So, she would come in, join us in bed for a snuggle and snooze, then my wife, feeling much hungrier than me, would take the girl downstairs and prepare something.
(I would guess she's already posed a rant about wanting me to help with this activity. Much as I would try, it's just not something I find I'm able to motivate myself to do consistently and for that I'm sorry.)
Now, with my son deciding to wake up at the usual morning time to eat -- why should he break routine for this weekend thing he doesn't have any concept about just so I can nap? -- that starts the day a little earlier. I do try to be the one to go get him and bring him to my wife in bed for the morning start. I then lie back down, half-snoozing until, inevitably, my daughter comes in. From there, the quiet morning snuggle becomes more like a circus as she and the boy play/fuss/tunnel in the sheets/fuss and otherwise act like their ages.
Back to the story:
Today there was no difference other than we all managed to stay in pretty good moods, even to the point of getting everyone dressed and working in showers after breakfast. My son was the first one done, followed by my wife, then my daughter and finally me -- IIRC. It was at this point where we heard a melodic, "I need a snack," followed by the pitter-patter of my daughter's little shoes going down the stairs and around to the kitchen.
We heard the pantry door open, rustling in the pantry, the door close, drawers open and shut, nothing outside the noises you would expect to hear for the preparation of a snack. So, it was with quite a shock when my daughter came back upstairs and my wife asked, "Where'd you get that?" "That" was a big hunk of cheese from the fridge. We were not upset with the choice of snack, but this is precisely where the question at hand came into play as both my wife and I stared at each other. We decided, in that parental-telepathy kind of way, to wait a few minutes as we were all going to be wrapped-up and headed down anyway.
So, we get downstairs and my wife asked, "How did you get the cheese?"
"I cut a piece."
"With what, honey?"
"A knife."
"From the drawer?"
"Yes."
"Where's the knife now" (it wasn't on the counter as far as we could see)
"I put it back."
"Ok, in this drawer?" asked my wife, pointing at the drawer with our eating utensils.
"No, the other one."
** Panic sets in at this point as I start moving across the kitchen **
"Which one?" my wife asks again.
"That one." my daughter answers, sorta indicating with her head in the direction I feared before returning to another bite of the snack.
Sure enough, I get over to the drawer, open it, and see the tell-tale streak of cheese along the blade of our butcher knife. I think I laughed as I pulled forth the blade to clean it and check the rest of the drawer for escaped cheese, but I was quick to mentally count the fingers toes and other body parts I'd seen in the last few minutes.
We've moved the knives.
