My daughter spiked her half-eaten apple on the floor like a football, slid her Sippy Cup off the high-chair tray as if it were a shuffleboard, and with finality, proclaimed, “Duh!”
I don’t remember which loinfruit introduced it or when, but for anyone under the age of two in our household, this has become the customary Closing Ceremonies for a meal, for alerting one’s parents that the eater is “Done.”
Looking up from dinner’s dirty dishes in the sink, I watched my wife release my daughter from the clutches of her high chair, pick her up, and bravely walk our kitchen’s version of The Green Mile–past an old bookshelf we’ve converted into a snack shelf (Pantry 2: This Time It’s Personal, if you will). Although our children claim to be “duh” with their food, as soon as we de-high-chair them they often notice Pantry 2 items that were not on that meal’s menu–morsels they must receive promptly if the parent on duty wishes to avoid a brilliantly-executed tantrum.
While they’ve learned many words so far, there are still a sizable amount of items for which the Twins still use the caveman-style point-and-grunt method, and on this particular day, my daughter’s finger shot out instantly at her target. Unfortunately for my wife, she did not leave enough distance between my daughter’s ninja arm and the shelf, and before we knew it, our daughter had snatched the entire bag of miniature Sun-Maid Raisin boxes.
This snack is popular with the Twins not because they are particularly fond of raisins, but because they absolutely adore having their own little boxes to carry them in. We have scientific proof of this phenomenon, as whenever my mother offers the Twins unboxed raisins at her house, they look at her like she’s nuts, as if to say, “What is this sh!t? Where’s my f*cking box?”
“Ooooh! OohOohOooooooh!” my daughter enthused, waiting for my wife to open her a box.
There was just one snag with my daughter’s infinitely-compelling argument, as addressed by her mother: “Baby Girl, you just ate a whole box of raisins. Come on, let’s go play.”
Prying the bag from my daughter’s death grip, she placed it back on the shelf to the operatic tune of an inconsolable raisin box enthusiast, carrying her to the playroom, where the howling crescendoed.
My son, who had been quietly finishing his meal, craned his neck up with a puzzled look, investigating the commotion.
I shot him a wink. “Sister’s mad, huh, Buddy?” He grinned and giggled, punctuated by tiny fist-pounds on his tray.
Approximately 2.5 dish-cleans later, my wife returned with our still-crying daughter. A look of defeat on her face, she reached for the raisins and handed Toddlerzilla a box.
“Aw, you caved!” I lamented. Like most parents, we attempt to stick to our guns so the Twins will respect our authoritah.
Giving me the stink-eye due to my obvious attack on her authoritah, my wife replied:
She got so mad at me that she farted. It wasn’t worth it.
After a moment of careful deliberation–considering the emotional requirements of such a pronounced physiological response–I decided there was nothing to say but “Touché.”
Fingers buried in her prize, our little champion rode off into the sunset on her Mommy.
While this moment of flatulent desperation has awarded my wife and me a fantasmic new catch phrase (“I’m so mad I could fart!”), I just hope this doesn’t teach our daughter to make a big stink about everything she wants. Only time will tell.
But in the meantime, I’m hiding the raisins.
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If not, no raisins for you. And this time, I’m plugging my nose.