FtMB: Make it Rain, baby

From the memory banks:

Make it rain, baby.

It was barely past dawn. My eldest, who has severe food intolerances, walks into the bedroom, holding half of a blueberry bagel. She isn't supposed to have them, but it's not a world-ending sleight on her diet.

She gently places the bagel on my pillow. "Here you go, mama."

I didn't think much of it as she sauntered back out until the main room - until it slowly dawned into my sleep deprived brain that she had gotten into our gated-off kitchen.

You know. Where the knives, forks, chemicals, and hardware like the blender are. I grabbed the edge of the blanket and flung it aside to leap out of bed -

Only to be suddenly and inexplicably showered with hundreds of cheez-its.

They crunched underfoot and I slid on them across the hardwood, only to go down Bambi-style when I slid on the empty, ripped-open box in the doorway.

Thank you, child.