November 15th, 2011
You know my secret theory…the one where I think my kids are planning to have me committed and doing their best to get me there. (And honestly, it’s not going to take much.)
This morning, Pudding decided to add his 2 cents.
He asks ME, for a corn muffin.
I do not go to get said corn muffin. Instead, his FATHER provides the corn muffin.
What The Tech Guru does not know, is that when you give Pudding a corn muffin, you must NOT FUCK WITH IT.
Imagine the following in a German accent, if you will, because after all, this kid has Der Vaterland strongly in his blood.
Der is to be NO CUTTING!
YOU VILL NOT, in ANY WAY, ADD TO, DETRACT FROM, OR MODIFY ZE AFOREMENTIONED MUFFIN.
So what happens? The Tech Guru, thinking he’s being Mr. Super Awesome Dad and all, decides that it would be WONDERFUL to slice, toast it, and slather the inside of this corn muffin with soft, warm, melting butter.
LAWD A MERCY.
Pudding looks at this absolutely scrumptious looking specimen of a muffin that was placed in front of him…
and all fucking hell breaks loose.
First, the crying. You know, the wailing that sounds like a friggin ambulance siren: it starts off low and then just increases in pitch and decibel until you seriously contemplating shoving pencils into your ears.
Then, in the midst of the tears and the red eyes, “I DON’T WANT THAT MUFFIN!”
“What’s wrong with it? It’s nice and buttery!” Tech Guru says, decidedly miffed that his thoughtful offering is getting TWO LITTLE THUMBS DOWN.
“It’s NOT the SAME.”
“Yes, it is. It’s a corn muffin, which is what you asked for.” This is The Tech Guru. Math genius. Programming master. Chess Master. Lover of logic. Illogical things – like 4-year olds – COMPLETELY STUMP HIM.
“No it’s NOT! It’s NOT the saaaaaaaaaame,” Pudding wails.
“But it was just sliced, and it has butter, you like butter, and it’s nice and warm-”
“I DON’T WANT IT! I’m NOT EATING IT! It’s NOT THE SAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAMMME,” at which point, he runs off flailing and crying into the playroom.
The Tech Guru is looking at me, first a little confused, then a little pissed. I’m stirring my tea and giving him a dry look that says “Welcome to my world of pain.”
He’s about to drag Pudding back to eat the goddamn muffin (old school discipline sometimes kicks in in our house) but I do the slice across the neck action. Kill it, I’m telling him. My advice? FORGET THAT LITTLE FUCKER, and ENJOY YOUR OWN GODDAMN BREAKFAST.
Eventually, Pudding comes back to the breakfast table, where the rest of us have pretty much finished scarfing down our food. He sits down. The offending muffin is still there. He looks at it, sniffs, and takes a sip of his tea.
His face blossoms with undiluted pleasure and he beams at me.
“This is a bloody good cup of tea!” he says.
I’m loving it. Not only did I not fuck up my part of breakfast…the kid’s an Anglophile!