You know that feeling when you're bobbling around in the kitchen preparing breakfast, still bleary with sleep, and the child you've set down on the floor goes quiet and you forget that quiet == ominous?
So you're pouring the hot water into the cafetiere, and you remember to look down, and you see your toddler is playing with the cat food. And you panic momentarily until you realise he's picking up all the scattered kibble and put it back in the bowl for the cat, which is rather sweet, although you make a mental note to wash his hands before you put him in his high chair for breakfast.
The cat comes in and weaves in and out of your legs, purring and mewling for his gooshy food. You tell him he'll have to wait because you're making the preschooler's porridge. The cat goes to his kibble bowl and stops trying to trip you, so you forget about him and the toddler again.
You come back in from putting coffee cups and vitamins on the dining table and you see the toddler having an animated and one-sided conversation with the cat, who is taking bits of kibble from the toddler's fingers. You stop to smile at this scene, until you see that the toddler is alternately feeding one bit of kibble to the cat and the next to...himself.
You gently pick up the toddler, say, "No, Keiki, the kibble is for the cat. It is not a good pre-breakfast snack. Let's wash your hands and wipe your mouth, shall we?"
It's a very special feeling, the one where the façade of calm is masking the internal screams of horror, isn't it?