"Maggie, that's so gross!"
"What?" she asks, the sticky peanut butter glistening in the light as it precariously hangs, a huge glob on the end of the pickle - the offending object frozen halfway between the jar it was just dipped in, and her eager, hungry mouth.
"You've had a lot of weird cravings lately, but this is by far the grossest one yet," Glenn says with a laugh and a shake of his head.
She points the pickle at him in an accusing way, the kind that has him fighting a grin at her antics lately, their child giving her a nose like a bloodhound and the refined palette of a five year old.
He raises his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay, whatever baby wants, baby gets," he appeases, the grin he was fighting breaking through, as he leans over to place a kiss on her forehead.