I found Jack crouched behind the laundry basket like a tiny predator in mismatched socks. His eyes locked onto Pookie’s dish—half full, undeniably pungent, and radiating the quiet energy of “DO NOT TOUCH” reserved for outlet covers and mystery substances found beneath the couch.

And yet, there he was. My son. My bright, bold, bizarre little boy.
Two years old.
Thirty inches of ambition.
And a mouth full of Fancy Feast.

I didn’t scream. Not because I didn’t want to, but because motherhood teaches you to calculate chaos before reacting. I’d already used my daily allotment of freak-outs over misplaced crayons and the sudden appearance of blue yogurt on the curtains.

So I stood. I stared. I blinked three times slowly. The universal mom Morse code for “What fresh hell is this?”

Jack chewed, thoughtfully. Like a man at a wine tasting.
He looked up and said, without irony:
“It tastes like crunchy meat!”

Pookie froze. Her tail flicked in betrayal. I could feel her soul leave her body.

I opened my mouth to intervene, but then…
Then I remembered the day he ate a leaf.
The day he tried deodorant.
The time he licked the window and declared it “spicy.”
This? This was just another chapter in the sensory memoir of toddler cuisine.

He was fine. Thrilled, even.
I Googled “can children survive cat food?”
I lied to the pediatrician.
I disinfected his mouth with apple juice and a vague prayer.

And as he ran off to torment a pillow and mispronounce the word “banana,” I sat down next to the dish and whispered to Pookie:
“We’ve both lost something today.”