Aside from torn paper, bits of string, and anything discovered on the floor, Waylan’s favorite staple food of late, is bread. On Sundays, the first sacrament tray goes through a gauntlet of wiggling and skirmishing baby—one of keen and well-equipped artillery. The fierce, pointed weaponry consists mainly of pudgy, grabby little fingers and fat, flailing baby armaments. This weekly event keeps Curtis and Amy alert, trying to gain order and restraint as the silver salver of Waylan’s main desire makes it slowly down the row, hopefully safe from tiny-hands reach, and respectfully in-tact!
