One Sunday, I got the urge to make waffles. This made Moonie very, very happy. Ever since, he has woken me up on Sundays by doing little troll flips and cartwheels around my bed while shouting, “Waffles, waffles, waffles!”

When that doesn’t work, he’ll totter over carrying the bigger-than-him jug of syrup, grinning.

And when that doesn’t work, he’ll pull out his favorite waffle joke: “What do you call a waffle walking down the beach?”
“Sandy eggo!”

(Me: “Moonie, you’re supposed to say ‘San Diego’ and the joke is that it SOUNDS like ‘sandy eggo.'”
Moonie: “But if they sound the same, why can’t I say ‘sandy eggo’?”
Me: “You’re right. Sandy eggo it is.”)

The flips and jokes still don’t mean Moonie is guaranteed to get waffles. But today he did, and he’s been walking around with a big grin on his face and syrup on his chin for hours.


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