Anna was coming up the stairs as I started down. The strange noise I had heard was the sound of her clothes against the wall as she came up, hands full. What she carried was remarkable: half a bagel, spread fairly neatly with peanut butter, and a cup of milk about 3/4 full. She had decided that she needed more breakfast, I suppose, and without a word had found what she needed.
Now the rule is that we don't take food (certainly not peanut butter or cups of milk) upstairs. So, after expressing my amazement at her initiative, I suggested that we take the bagel and milk down to the table. You did this all by yourself, didn't you? I said. She beamed down the stairs at me, as I carried her plate and cup towards the dining room. 'Yes.'
Not a drop of spilled milk, not a stray smear of peanut butter anywhere. Anna sat with me at the table, carefully using her napkin and smiling broadly. She didn't eat that much of the bagel, but I didn't mind. Who would have thought that some peanut butter could bring so much joy to us both?
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