Two thirty a.m. A small boy, wide awake.
Him: I want restaurant food.
Me: Groan. How ’bout tomorrow?
Him: Whine, whimper. Pitiful strained little voice. I’m hungeeeee.
Me: Groan. How ’bout a peanut butter sandwich, Mister Eats- Two- Noodles- for- Dinner- So- He- Wakes- Up- Hungry?
Him: Okay.
So I stumble downstairs, make a sandwich and debate about the sanity of giving him some milk in the middle of the night, having washed four loads of bedclothes already this weekend. But it would be cruel to give him peanut butter without milk. He wins. I’m such a good mother.
Later that morning, somehow he’s managed to nestle himself in MY bed. Wide awake again.
Him: Time to wake up! It’s a sunny day (pointing to the window, using that tone of voice in which the mere fact that it’s a sunny day is all the reason in the world), Wook! Time to wake up!
Me: Groan.
Him: I want restaurant food.
Me: Groan. Later. Not for breakfast.
A little later. (A few hours, anyway, and after a breakfast of apple slices and milk.)
Him: I want restaurant food.
Me: Groan. Give in. (Actually, there was a demand request for Cheetos prior to the restaurant food, but perhaps it was merely a ploy to get me to concede to the restaurant leftovers.)
We met the cousins for lunch yesterday, and Mister Noodle Face had all of two noodles at the restaurant. I really need to find a way to get him to behave while out. And to actually eat. In fact, I need to find a way to get him to eat, period. Before six p.m., preferably.
He has a helicopter fascination in which all items that find themselves in his grubby little paws are whirled about at great speed, the consequences of which could sometimes be disastrous. Especially in public. Or around expensive electronics.
But who can resist a spaghetti faced* child? It’s such a classic. Note the FOD** radius.
An hour or so later. Just finishing this post. A small child appears, a crinkly sound coming from behind his back.
Him: Know what I got? Know what I got?
Me: What?
Him: Suppwise! Cheetos. I got Cheetos!
Me: What are doing with the Cheetos?
Him: Opening dem.
Me: Did I say you could have those?
Him: Yes.
Me: I did not!
Him, ignoring my response: You open my Cheetos? Hey Mommy? You open my Cheetos?
Me: Groan. What do you say?
Him: Pweeeeeese.
*Why are my pictures so blurry? Don’t answer that. I don’t see anything in focus in these pictures. Whah, whah, whahhh.
**Foreign Object Debris (in some circles).
