Who's cooking the shoe?
This morning Tristan got up at five in the morning right after Andrea left for the airport. While I dozed back into dreamland after saying goodbye to Andrea, Tristan was otherwise engaged cooking his shoes in the microwave.
I awoke to set of beady little eyes staring at me and a strange smell in the house. Jumping up I ran downstairs thinking he had touched the stove and started a fire. No. The fire was in the microwave. There it was open with his melted shoes sitting on the glass dish in the microwave. A puddle of goo coated the bottom of the dish but it was the thick smell of plastic seeping into every nook in cranny in the house that was the real problem. After burning my hand on the plate taking it outside, I jerked open every window in the house to try and stop the noxious fumes from getting any worse. If they did we were going to have to evacuate the house because I was starting to see spots in front of my eyes.
He played like he didn’t know what he had done and to a certain degree I think that is true. I think he knew what he was doing right up until the moment the shoes actually had fire running up the sides of them and so he opened the door and tried to blow it out. Obviously that didn’t work and he came to get me. Definitely a unique if not somewhat creative way on his part to get me up at 5 am.
Being a stay at home father I don’t have the natural instincts that stay at home mothers seem. My gender hasn’t had countless millennia to hone maternal instincts and coping skills for dealing daily with these occurrences. Of course, we make sure and lock our many household poisons in cabinets out of reach and never let them cross the street without hold our hands. But who knew that a three year old would test out the integrity of his shoes in a microwave oven. I clearly didn’t.
