Laura makes a mean pot of chicken tortilla soup. I could eat it every day for the rest of my life and be perfectly happy. The kids are a little more picky, but if we pull every piece of tomato out, Finn will lap it up.
The other day he finished the body of the soup and was down to the broth. He picked up his bowl with both hands, tipped it up and drank it like a glass of milk. It left a dandy soup mustache on his little face.
I watched him with a smile, wondering what he’d do next. He tugged the arm of his long-sleeved shirt down to his hand and pressed the back of his forearm to his mouth, holding it there.
Me: Bubba, don’t wipe your face with your shirt sleeve. That’s what napkins are for.
Finn: I didn’t wipe it, Daddy. I just held my shirt up to my face and let it soak up my mustache.
Me: I think it’s the same thing, pal.
Finn: Not me. Next time tell me not to wipe or soak if you don’t want me to do that. Otherwise, I’m going to soak it up every time.