Sunday night, Chris and I had French bread with our dinner. So on Monday morning, I used the leftover bread to make lost bread for breakfast.
After Adam plowed through three slices of lost bread, he started running the circuit between the kitchen, the dining room, the living room, and back into the kitchen, shouting, "I'm Mr. Lost Bread! I'm Mr. Lost Bread! You can't catch me!" (Maybe I put too much powdered sugar on the lost bread.)
So, Chris told Adam that he was Mr. Pancake, and they chased each other through the house with Adam shouting, "I'm Mr. Lost Bread! You can't get me, Mr. Pancake!"
For the next couple of days, Adam went around calling himself Mr. Lost Bread. He'd dump out a basket of toys, put the basket on his head, and say, "Hey! What's Mr. Lost Bread got on his head?" Or, he'd play in his room after I'd put him down for a nap, saying, "Mr. Lost Bread doesn't want to take a nap!"
Finally, on Wednesday, Adam decided that I was worthy of a nickname, too, so I'm Mr. Toast. So now, we're kind of like the cast of Reservoir Dogs, except more IHOP than Crayola. Except for Dutch. He's Mr. Carrot.
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