I knew that having children would also mean having cheerios. Finding them under foot, in the creases of the car seat, stuck to the wall, etc.
When Becca and I moved into our present apartment — previously lived in by a couple and their one-year-old — we cleaned from top to bottom what was already a pretty tidy place, and yet, for six months I was still occasionally sweeping up rogue cheerios hiding out behind the radiator or under the stove. So I knew what was coming.
And I accept my fate, entering the cheerio era with some equanimity, even while anticipating that familiar crunch under my shoes for the next, oh, FIVE YEARS or so — and even though, frankly, I don’t like cheerios. (At least I won’t have to deal with honey-nut® cheerios, though; those things weird me out.) Plus, who can begrudge a cute kid her cheerios?
— or her sweet potatoes for that matter.