Three Banini

My son’s favorite bowl broke a few weeks ago. Its chards have been sitting on the kitchen window sill since then, waiting for some attention from the Krazy Glue tube. The accident happened when my son was clearing his place at the table. He’d just finished eating his soup and as he stood up, his foot got caught on the chair leg. He pitched forward and the bowl sailed out of his hands, smacking into the back door. Tears, distress. We picked up the pieces and put on Crocs in case there were any porcelain slivers we missed. Then we walked over to my computer. My son took some consolation in an email we sent to my mom, who’d given him the bowl. Grandma, we wrote, we need another monkey bowl. I was eager for its replacement, too. That bowl was solid-gold for getting my son to sit in his chair and finish his food. That’s because of the monkey inside. We’d play a game as he’d eat: “Wait, I see the monkey’s tail, but where are his ears?” (slurp, slurp). “There they are!”

When my daughter returned home from kindergarten that afternoon, it only took her about two minutes to notice the bowl fragments on the kitchen counter. I braced myself for a second consolation session because she’s sentimental about everything, even lollipop wrappers. But surprisingly, she took it in stride. “Perfect,” she said. “The monkey bowl broke into three bananas.”

“No, three banini, ” my son corrected.