I call him Baba Boboli

I stood in the kitchen, hands on hips, fixated on my son and his gooey slice of Boboli pizza.

"Stop! Please stop!" I implored. It was too late.

He looked up mid-bite, cheese hanging off his chin.

"What is this?" I asked tugging at his sleeve.

"My fhirt?" he mumbled through a filled mouth.

"Right."

"And, what is that?" I asked, pointing to a neatly folded, pristine white square.

"Uh, what? A napkin?"

"Right. Now, here's a tough one. Which one should be used for wiping stuff from there?" I pointed to his face which now looked like he was wearing a spa-tomato-sauce mask.

Child prodigy started laughing maniacally, pizza flying out of his mouth. Yeah, that's right, I thought. I am funny. Finally, a child gets my humor. Validation. I am cool.

"My sleeve! I should use my sleeve! HA HA HA HA HA! Sleeeeeeeeeeeve!" Madan was in hysterics, practically falling off his chair. Kaila was alternating WTF? looks between us while shoving pepperoni in her mouth. "Sleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeve!" Baba Boboli was still at it.

And then, an idea was born. From now on, when Madan outgrows his shirts, I'm cutting off the sleeves and serving them back to him as napkins. I'm hoping, just hoping Baba Boboli will use the right one next time.