You can’t help yourself. You can’t wait.
Pudgy fingers dip in the bowl, wide palms wiping at the sides with wild desperation. You jam your orange smeared fingers between your toothless gums and ambrosia of the gods melts in your mouth: sugar and cream and sugar and butter and sugar and orange and sugar and nothing else matters but sugar.
You get what you can out with your fingers and then your mouth. You even try your feet for good measure. (The booties are good at picking up the frosting, but hesitant to relinquish it to your round belly.) You feel teased and, like a shark driven mad by the scent of blood, you cast about the kitchen counters for more. You see a stack of promising bowls in the sink and begin crawling toward the potential smorgasbord of sucrose.
But in your haste, you’ve miscalculated. The frosting bowl tilts sideways and slides off the rounded edge of the counter. It pivots, spiraling through the air, graceful in its descent, and then shatters across the tiled kitchen floor.
You freeze and then you feel the rumblings of doom approaching. Your mother rounds the corner like an approaching storm, her face puffy with sleep. Her eyes immediately land on you and then drop to the remains of the bowl.
You shrug, trying to act natural in your frosting covered state. Maybe she’ll think it was someone else.
But the she-devil’s too clever. She plucks you off the counter and mauls your face with a scratchy kitchen rag. Screaming with rage and still desperate for more sugar, you thrash as she hauls you out of the kitchen, but it’s no use. She’s too strong. She drops you into the play pen and your dreams of unlimited cake are over.
Happy birthday, butterfingers. Better luck next year.