The boy has been busy digging through our trash. It's the second time in three days that he's gotten into it. His primary target both times seemed to be the coffee grounds. This morning the grounds were caked onto his legs, around his mouth, and tracked across the kitchen floor. The Pop-Tarts box, the peach peels, and the vinegar-based slaw he passed over, completely oblivious to their obvious charms. But the little wet anthills resting in stained filters are irresistible and are the object of his raccoonish ways.
It's not like we don't feed the boy. He eats. He eats a lot. He eats as much as his sisters and, many times, more. He's 14 months old and this past week he made short work of an entire cheeseburger. If he wants to eat it, we usually let him. But there are boundaries. Eating coffee grounds out of the trash can just seems, well, desperate. You know, something Meg would do if she couldn't afford to brew her own beans.
Now he's buzzing around the floor all hopped up on coffee grounds. And there goes the lamp - I better go.
I really don't understand it. None of the other kids did this. Maybe he's getting the idea from his mama.