It’s already 8:15am, waaaay past the eating witching hour at which point both 5 year olds and 2 year olds turn into crabby, cranky monsters. So, in my foolish optimism that I’ll get an accurate answer, I ask Jack what he’d like for breakfast.
“I’m not hungry.”
Oh, right. I know where this is going. “Jack, you say that now, but I know what’s gonna happen. Maybe 10 minutes from now, maybe 20, suddenly you’re going to decide you’re hungry. And then you’re going to come me, and you’re gonna say, ‘Daddy, I’m staaaaaaarving,’ and you’ll get all whiny, and you’ll say ‘Daaaaady, feeeeeed me, I’m sooooooooooo hungry, I think I’m gonna die if I don’t eat something! Oh pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeease Daddy, I’m staaaaaaaarving, gimme some food right now! Ohhhh! Ohhhhhhhhh!’ ”
Jack looked at me and said, “Daddy, you’re just being dramatic.“