Bedtimes with Charlie have taken a turn for the worse in the past few days. I don't know why--except just the unpredictability and pure cussedness that is two years old--but he's been shrieking and writhing on the floor for 45 minutes before finally getting into bed and going to sleep. This means some very unpleasant evenings for me lately, obviously.
Tonight he blessedly decided to forgo the shrieking fit (despite zero changes to the routine we always follow that has apparently been totally unacceptable for the past few days but is all of the sudden A-OK again), instead just flipping around in his bed and talking to himself. For an hour. While I sat there on a chair in his room, waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting.
By the time he finally fell asleep and I escaped his room at 8:30 p.m., I was feeling distinctly grumpy. Also hungry, and then even more grumpy when I remembered we ate the last of the peanut butter earlier today so my planned peanut butter on a rice cake was a no go.
The MiL sometimes has random little jars of crunchy peanut butter for baking on the top shelf of one of the cabinets, though, so I started foraging up there in the hopes of finding one of those. But I found something much, much better: pudding cups.
Oh yes. Pudding cups. Do surprises get any happier than that?
They were left over from the time last spring when Cubby was so sick he wouldn't eat anything. I bought him some chocolate pudding cups figuring that those would be a surefire way to get him to ingest some calories. Turned out he was sick enough that he didn't even eat those. I think he ate half of one. So there were still three up there.
I ate all three. Oh yes, I did. And it was glorious.
Nothing can redeem a day better than an unexpected pudding cup. Unless it's three unexpected pudding cups.