March 3rd, 2012
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.
“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!
“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.”
And then, “Can I have some?”
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.