Peanut Butter Baby

~written from the perspective of my mother~

My name is Leslie. I’m a young mother, forced to work at home when I got pregnant and gave birth to a tornado of a boy.

He’s done a lot of wild things. Some of them involved something broken in the house. Plenty of them landed him in the ER room, where I savagely prayed for his limbs and my husband prayed for good coverage from our insurance. Each one involved a great, big mess-such as the time he made a painter’s pallette from his diaper, and finger-painted all four walls of his room. But the story I would tell my daughters in the future included not only my first son, but his younger brother.

It began with a long phone call. Around four in the afternoon, I had set up 5-month-old Aaron in his bouncy seat and 3-year-old Alex on the living room floor. They were watching Winnie-the-Pooh. I had just finished lunch and was sitting at the kitchen table, finishing a mason jar of sweet tea. I was savoring it before getting back to working in the office. I went for the last drops of the glass, that were stuck between the ice cubes, and the kitchen phone rang. I picked it up and said a hello.

The person on the other end asked me how I was doing, how were my kids, was I able to see this or talk to that person . . . they just had everything to ask. I couldn’t figure out what they were getting at, or what the main point of calling was. It was just a jumble of a lot of issues at once, and it was taking forever to get through. The phone I was using had a cord as well, so I couldn’t get up and check on Alex and the baby. I was stuck in that kitchen until the call was over.

Alex toddled in, spoon in hand. “Peanut butter?” he asked, with chubby baby cheeks and wide, innocent eyes, like he had a great idea but didn’t want to tell me.

Okay, I thought. It’s a great snack, and it will keep him still until I get out of this call. I told him yes and spooned out some peanut butter from the jar for him. He snatched the spoon, smacked his lips, and toddled back to the living room.

He came in again. His face peeked in from behind the wall first, then dancing toes followed as he hopped back into the kitchen, holding up an empty spoon like a conductor’s baton. “Peanut butter?” he requested again.

Yes, I told him, and spooned out another dollop of peanut butter. Alex’s face lit up with a greedy grin, and taking the spoon, he ran full speed down the hall. The phone call went on. He came in once more, then again, and again and again. Brown eyes and a baby-fat grin appeared before me, asking, “Peanut butter?” I wondered maybe once or twice, how many spoonfuls has he eaten now? I hadn’t kept track of the number of spoonfuls Alex had asked for. What if he had eaten the whole jar? Spoons had begun to pile up in the sink; he definitely could have eaten about half the jar by now. But I couldn’t get up to check on him because I was still stuck in that phone call. Groaning, I slouched and sank deep into the wooden kitchen stool. The person on the other end of the line began to ask about my mother. That was it. I said a quick thank-you-for-the-call-and-you-just-have-a-great-day! and slapped that phone onto the receiver.

A faint cry came from the living room. Aaron! I thought wildly. My legs jumped and ran out of the kitchen, down the hall, and into the living room. I searched for the source of the cry. Tuning out the bright notes of Elmo’s World, I found Alex crouched with his hands hiding his face behind Aaron’s bouncy seat, which was turned sideways onto the carpet. The seat cover of the bouncy seat had fallen over a small bundle, and lifting it up revealed Aaron still buckled inside! Grunting, I turned the bouncy seat back to a standing position and unbuckled little Aaron. He was sticky, and lathered from head to toe in peanut butter.

I remembered all of Alex’s spoonfuls and blazed the toddler with a look over Aaron’s sticky shoulder. What had he done? The brown goop was gelled into his hair and plastered all over his face, with golden-brown flicks hanging from his eyelashes. Peanut butter oozed down his chin and into his shirt collar. Somehow Alex had even managed to coat the fat little legs poking out of Aaron’s jumper. His tiny lips, glossed with peanut, had already begun to wail.

I screamed and trampled back to the kitchen for the phone, Aaron under my arm. I called the pediatrician as fast my sticky hand could dial. A five-month-old baby would be much too young to ingest peanut butter, let alone being coated with it. What if he was allergic? He might already be breaking out in hives!

“Doctor! Doctor! My son covered my baby from head to toe in peanut butter and-”

I stopped. The doctor was laughing. In fact, she couldn’t stop. She laughed great, big belly laughs that bubbled up like soup stirred to a roaring boil. She told me to give him a bath and to bring the baby in if any symptoms of a reaction developed.

I washed him clean, and he seemed just fine. In the weeks to come, Aaron didn’t show any signs of an allergic reaction- he was just a healthy, happy baby. Nevertheless, I learned not to take long phone calls unless it was nap time.