Wednesday, February 01, 2012

Fix the Banana

It’s kind of like a new show—Pimp My Banana, but then again, no, it’s not.

My three-year-old has not lost his terrible twos now that he is three, unfortunately. In fact, I’d say, he’s simply perfected them and made them into the threatening threes.

He screams, whines, cries at the littlest discomfort. You know, like when I don’t get every last crumb of granola scooped out of his bowl before we pour in the Cinnamon Munchies. Or when I tell him it’s time to put our socks on our feet, not our hands, when it’s time for school.

But this morning’s latest meltdown shines the light on how absurdly a three-year-old’s brain can work. (Yes, I know it’s not absurd, I mean, he’s three, but I digress…)

I told him he could have a banana—a whole banana—once he had on his coat and shoes for school. Well, with a bit more cajoling, he did finally put the aforementioned items on the correct body parts.

That’s where Dad comes in. He did not know that the agreement was for an entire banana, thus he peeled half a banana and broke off a chunk and tried to get away with giving our son just that one piece.

Oh, no.

The screams. The cries.

“Well, do you want this piece instead?” I ask as I hand him the banana still cloaked in skin.

“No, fix the banana! Fix the banana!” he shouts as boogers pool in his nostrils.

“I can’t do that, honey,” I say and even demonstrate that banana pieces will not restick themselves together.

I try all the tricks—offer him both halves, say it’s this or nothing, try to distract him with Lightning McQueen, but alas, the crying, it continues.

Finally, my husband scoops him up to walk out the door, “Here, take the banana.” He puts one piece in each hand, my son takes a deep breath, “Ok.” And they’re out the door.

Ah, motherhood. And bananas.

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