The Goop

I had taught the kids a poem for Family Home Evening a few months ago (which we recite occasionally when a manners offense has been committed).  The other day I was headed downstairs, and as I neared the kitchen I heard a wee voice chanting it:

"The Goops, they lick their fingers.
The Goops, they lick their knives.
They spill their broth on the table cloth,
Oh, they lead disgusting lives.

The Goops, they talk while eating,
And loud and fast they chew.
And that is why I'm glad that I
Am not a Goop, are you?"

I felt a small swell of pride as I rounded the corner, my little one applying the lesson he had learned so well... until I spotted the singing kitchen gnome.

Face buried deep in the yogurt container, raspberry glop everywhere, suspicious puddle under his chair, bulging little belly, which I like to rub like a lucky rabbit's foot, and a smile to melt his momma's heart, all while singing about the Goops.