On Saturday, The Boy and I went out for dinner. I had a theory that a thin crusted, veggie pizza might be okay if me to eat even though the baby had given me gestational diabetes. A reasonable portion. With a salad.

I was all sorts of wrong.

So I told The Boy he could eat my leftovers. But, being that we don’t really like thin crust pizza – and he doesn’t like the toppings on this pizza – I wasn’t really surprised the pizza was still in the refrigerator today.

Oliver met me at the refrigerator to help. He was willing, he said, to eat that pizza for me.

I shrugged and put the box on the floor.

He licked. He chewed. He spit out.

He’s with The Boy – and me, for that matter – that particular pizza should go uneaten.


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