Torture Tactics of a Four-Year Old Ninja

A few days back I’m fucking around doing some serious work on the computer. Pudding comes up to me and asks me,

Can I have a raisin crisp?”

I’m busy right now, sweetie – give me a minute.

Five minutes go by.

Mom. Can I have a raisin crisp?

Now that I think of it, didn’t you JUST have breakfast? Wait a little while, you’re being a little piggie.

He giggles and walks away.

ONE MINUTE LATER…

Can I have a raisin crisp?

PUDDING. I said NOT RIGHT NOW. When it’s snack time, you can have some.

I swear, it’s about TWO MINUTES and this kid COMES BACK like fucking Michael Myers in Halloween.

Mom, can I have a raisin crisp?

I glare at him. “You JUST ASKED me this. I said WAIT. When it is snack time, I will GIVE YOU THE RAISIN CRISPS.”

Five minutes later. Little footsteps. AGAIN.

Can I have the raisin crisp now?

Did I NOT JUST ANSWER you? How many times are you going to ask me this question? GO SIT DOWN.

Now I’m counting and it’s 45 seconds, I SWEAR to you, it’s 45 SECONDS and he’s in front of me AGAIN.

Is it time yet? Can I have the raisin crisp?

I don’t answer him. I don’t look at him. I love him to fucking pieces but right now at this minute, I am trying to pretend he does not even exist. But, remembering that I have taught him that it is rude not to answer someone when they ask you a question – even if they’ve already asked the same question A MILLION FUCKING TIMES – I sigh.

No, it is not time. Please. Go. Sit. Down.”

My temple is throbbing and even though I have just told him that we just had breakfast, I’m already contemplating a drink. Now it is two minutes and here come those little footsteps AGAIN. It’s like a fucking nightmare.

Mom -“

No, you cannot have the raisin crisps. Go sit down.

I don’t even know what the hell I’m looking at on the computer anymore. I hear him chatting with his sister for 1 minute and 32 seconds, and then lo and behold, here he comes! AGAIN!

Mom -”

PUDDING. ENOUGH. IF YOU ASK ME ONE MORE TIME FOR THOSE [FUCKING] RAISIN CRISPS, YOU WILL NOT. GET. ANY. RAISIN. CRISPS. EVER.” (I did not say fucking, you understand, but you better believe that’s what I was thinking.)

But Mom,” he protests, “I wasn’t going to ASK you for a raisin crisp.”

I close my eyes and sigh. “Okay, then. What is it?”

What’s a raisin crisp?

I look at him. He looks at me, the picture of innocence and seriousness. He REALLY WANTS TO KNOW WHAT A RAISIN CRISP IS. Seriously.

I start to laugh. He starts to giggle, and before you know it tears are running down my face and I am holding my stomach as he grins and cracks up. Finally, when I’ve reached the point where I can hardly breathe for laughing so hard, I get up, go into the kitchen and show him the box.

These,” I say, pointing to the picture on the box, “are raisin crisps.”

Oh.”

And then, “Can I have some?

I Was Tortured For These

I smirk at him. I know I am beaten. I hand him the box.

He smiles at me and walks away.

Goddamn 4-year old terrorist ninja. I love him.

 

 

 

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