Salami, Ham, and Cheese
It had snowed, a lot. We were nestled in our home, wading out the daylight hours. I decided on some sandwiches for lunch and offered to make some for everyone. All declined. I turned on the TV and put in "Mr. Deeds" that I had gotten on DVD for Christmas. I diligently created the master pieces and returned to the living room to snuggle into a humorous and filling lunchtime treat. And there she was!

Emma had planted herself right in the seat where I was planning on sitting, right in front of the boob tube. It was the perfect spot for someone with a plate full of food that required inhaling while watching a funny flick, and she was gleefully bouncing in it.

She had to of known that I had been fantasizing about this rewarding meal for at least twenty minutes. She had to of known that the same exact place where her tiny little bottom was rested was the best seat in the house at this precise time. She knew alright and she wasn't going to budge.

"Hey baby, can I sit there and watch my movie?" I asked with a calm persuading tone.
"But my mommy is reading to me." she batted her doe deer-like eyelashes at me.

She was sitting right next to Abbie, but I failed to notice because I only had eyes for this single position. So I let the dripping disappointment roll off of my back and chose the footstool directly perpendicular to the throne-spot and began my movie and delicious delicatessen delight.

I was about half-way done when the three-year-old rose and wandered off from MY seat. I promptly stood and scooted to the warm cushion without at sound. The movie seemed much funnier from this direct angle. I was content.

Then....
"Daddy you dook my dot!" The lower lip puckered as she whined these words.
"Eh . . . er, but you got up honey, I thought you were done sitting here." I mumbled.
"Dut I was just detting my baby doll!" her pitch increased, as she tightened the grip of the plastic toy in her curled arm.
"Just let Daddy finish his sandwich then I will let you have it back" I pleaded.

Silence.

I had to look away from the saddening sight, so I glanced up at Adam Sandler.

She began a routine that words cannot explain. It was precision. It was a speedy tongue-lashing given as delicately as only a young child can give without insulting. It was sincere, and it was heavy with truth.

"It's not dery nice to not div me my dot. Do I ever dake your dot when you det up? NO, I don't dake your dot. Dats NOT nice!"

I heard a crushing hush of one, my wife, sitting next to me. Emma's sweet eyes had turned grey with disapproval and I realized the terrible, terrible crime I had just committed. I grabbed my paper plate peppered with crumbs, apologized sincerely to my first born and scampered into the kitchen.