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.