A friend and I remised the other day about the funny things our children did. I told her this story.

My youngest daughter, Sara, loved butter. In fact, she loved not only butter but every kind of oil. If I left the butter too near the edge of the table, one-and-a-half-year-old Sara would toddle by and swipe her finger through the butter dish for a healthy dose. 

By the time she was two, she’d figured out how to unscrew lids. I stored the gallon jug of olive oil under the sink. One night when I was about to leave for choir practice, I walked into the kitchen and found the gallon of olive oil glugging on the floor. Sara sat spread-legged in the oily mess, her face pressed to the floor, drinking as fast as she could. Her clothing soaked up almost as much as she did.

I made a fast u-turn, headed for the door, and announced to my husband, “She’s all yours. I’m outta’ here.”

From then on, I kept the oil in a high cabinet.