Running with Knives

Miss L is now at that lovely height where she can reach counter tops. Nothing is too boring for her sticky little fingers. The week’s mail that I haven’t yet read through. The box of Cheerios. The bowl of fruit. The bowl of pens. Bread. The 10 inch bread knife.


One moment she was telling her doll to go to sleep, and the next second she was coming at me with this:

I resisted the urge to shriek and lunge at her. This would probably have ended badly. Wrestling it away could only end in blood. And since her usual response to “Give it to Mommy” has lately been to run away, giggling like crazy, I needed a different approach.

“I bet your doll would like that. Why don’t you give it to your doll?” I suggested.

Miss L likes to give things to her doll. Her doll now has a lot of stains on it from various shared meals. But this worked. She put the knife on the floor and wandered away, muttering something about Legos.

The knife now lives on top of the refrigerator.

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