Aside from the classic catch phrases “no” and “I don’t want to,” there are few words I hear from the Twins more often than “snack.”
It doesn’t matter what time of day it is or even if they’ve just finished a meal–if they’re awake, it’s snack time. In fact, it is not uncommon for either of them to scowl for 20 minutes at the meal we’ve prepared them–adamantly refusing to take even one bite–and to then make a beeline for the pantry door as soon as we let them down from their high chairs.
They each have their preferred methods for snack requests. My son, for example, likes to hang a single hand from the doorknob like a shaven ape and ask with a sort of singsongy Gregorian chant:
“SnaaaaaAAAAAaaaaack. SnaaaAAAaaAAAAaAaAck. Aaah-men.”
My daughter, on the other hand, is much more direct:
“Something else for eat. Open dis door. Snack. Open dis door, Daddy. Pleeeeeease.”
My wife and can expect these performances at any moment, all day, every day.
I’m not sure what it is about the snack that makes it the perpetual Disneyland that it is for them. Perhaps it’s because on some level we give them a choice. (“Sure, you can have those peanuts or those raisins, but no cookies.”) Maybe it’s the idea of not having to sit at a confined table and being able to eat while simultaneously playing Legos, doing puzzles, or body-slamming a sibling. Or maybe it’s just the independence toddlers crave–the ability to recognize and remedy their hunger all by themselves (with just a liiiiittle help from Mommy and Daddy).
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.