Chocolate?

Disclaimer and Spoiler Alert: It’s not chocolate. If your stomach can’t handle a sh*tty story, this is not the one for you.

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I sighed to myself, eager to start relaxing after a tough work week and busy Christmas season. My aching feet guide me back to the kitchen where I left myself a treat to help unwind and start my weekend on the right foot.

One of my special brownies.

But as I round the corner I find the plate I left it on, empty. Nothing but a few measly crumbs scattered upon the surface.

My first reaction is unbridled rage as I groan to myself and stomp down the hall to the living room. Ready to scold my husband for stealing my reward for finishing the work week. But as I step into the room I see him lazing about on the couch, flicking through channels on the TV and my toddler waddling around with his beloved dump truck.

The rage I feel subsides as my blood runs cold with the realization that my toddler has been able to reach things on the countertop lately. My feet are cemented to the floor in the doorway as I stand frozen, watching him play in peace. While worst-case scenarios start to run through my mind and I imagine what might happen to him if he did get a hold of my brownie.

“Are you okay, sweetie?” My husband asks, pulling his eyes away from the TV and watching me with a look of concern.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I answer as I snap out of my stupor. Then turn on my heels and leave the living room in a confused daze.

I push the terrifying thoughts of what could happen out of my mind as I head back to the kitchen in search of my phone. Preparing to google the effects of the Green Goddess on toddlers.

But as I slide my phone off the counter I consider the position of the plate and where I had left it. Sitting in the middle of the island, not within reaching distance of my very average-sized three-year-old.

I start to calm down as I doubt he would have been able to reach it. Unless he grabbed it from the edge and slid the plate back onto the counter that far. Even then, I doubt he would be capable of such stealth.

I walk around the island in search of evidence, because even if he was that stealthy he still would have left his usual trail of crumbs.

I’m relieved when I find nothing but still am uneasy at the lack of evidence to prove him innocent.

Placing my phone down again, I sigh and try to recall what I saw when I was in the living room. My husband was relaxing on the couch and my toddler looked more than content as he played on the floor. If he’d had the brownie I would think the proof would have been on his hands or face at the the very least. But then again, I also thought there would be crumb evidence on the floor.

To my knowledge there was no more evidence to be found in the kitchen and I had only one more option.

So I creep back to the living room and poke my head around the corner, neither suspect having moved from where I had left them. From my hiding place around the corner, I watch my toddler as he’s chatting away to himself and making his usual truck noises. I remain silent as I appraise his body language and hygiene, hoping not to find anything incriminating.

Until my eyes find the evidence that made my heart jump into my throat.

A brown substance on the tips of his fingers, that could be the remnants of chocolate. But there is only one way to find out as I cross the room in the blink of an eye, reaching out to him. I crouch beside him and grasp his hand in mine, pulling it towards my nose.

“What are you doing?” My husband calls from the couch as he starts to get to his feet.

Before I answer I bring our toddler’s hand to my nose, praying I won’t smell like chocolate.

I am temporarily relieved as I pull away in disgust and fight the urge to gag. “That’s not chocolate.” I choke out as I rise to my feet. Only to be met by the sight of my husband watching us in concern, a smudge of chocolate sitting in the corner of his mouth.

“You ate my brownie.” I half shout, taking a step towards him in anger.

“Yeah, we shared it like a half-hour ago.” He states with a furrowed brow of confusion. His eyes darting between me and our child, “What’s on his hand?” He asks, peering around me at our toddler, a glint of fear in his eyes.

“Not chocolate.” Is all I can say as I turn back to watch my child with a mixture of regret and disgust.

So much for starting my week end off on the right foot, but at least I know what happened to my special brownie.