I will survive

I have stared into the face of evil, and I have lived to tell about it.

Biscuit and I are both sick. Sniffling, sneezing, head-aching, nose-blowing ... you get the idea. I know how icky I feel, and I can only imagine that Biscuit feels the same way. And it is making both of us grumpy, grumpy, grumpy. We are truly tired of each other. Jeff has been living and breathing college basketball for the past two weeks and still has another week to go, so we get to see him for a few minutes each morning, and that's about it.

Biscuit asked for pancakes this morning for breakfast. I thought it was a good sign because neither of us has had an appetite. I make pancakes in large batches then freeze them. That way, I can just heat them up one at a time. So I warmed up a banana pancake and added a drizzle of real maple syrup from New York (my in-laws have spoiled me with that stuff!). Biscuit ate about 3 or 4 bites, and then, "Done, Mom. Done." And he pushed his plate away.

I tried all day to get him to eat something ... anything ... but he kept saying he wasn't hungry.

Finally, about 4 o'clock, Biscuit said, "I want pancake." I had my doubts. He's notorious (as I've learned most 2-year-olds are) about asking for a specific food item and then not eating it. So I said, "Are you SURE you want a pancake?" He assured me he would eat it, so I got it ready.

We sat down at the table and with the first two bites, everything was great. "Yummy, Mom."

Then, he stabbed a piece of pancake with his fork, brought it to his mouth, then put it back in the plate. I asked him what was wrong with that piece. "Too big, Mom. Won't fit." I asked him what he meant, and he said, "Won't fit in my mouth." So I figured I would fix it. I reached over, grabbed his fork and cut the piece into two pieces.

And that's when Satan showed up.

Biscuit. Melted. Down. Crying, wailing, screeching, "YOU BOKE IT! YOU BOKE IT! YOU CUT PANCAKE!" over and over and over again. What was I thinking?!? How could I possibly have helped the situation by cutting that piece of pancake in half?!? How could I be so cruel?!?

And then to add insult to injury, I moved his milk cup so he could reach it better. "NO, MOM! MILK GOES HERE! MILK NOT GO THERE! MILK GOES HERE!!!" Then he started alternating between his complaints - cut pancake, moved milk, cut pancake, moved milk. Over and over again.

Everything in me wanted to scream and leave the room. But I just sat there and stared at him. I didn't say anything. I didn't move. I just stared at him. He wailed and cried and said the same thing over and over again. I finally started flipping through a magazine that was on the table and pretended nothing was happening.

After about five minutes (some of the longest five minutes of my life), Biscuit stopped crying. I looked up at him, and just as if nothing at all had happened, he said, "Mom, I watch TV?"

Are you kidding me?!? He drags out that kind of drama for five straight minutes, then just stops on a dime and wants to watch TV? I told him that he had to eat three bites of pancake and then he could watch TV. His response? A chipper little "Okay!" Then he ate three bites, chewing and smiling like it was the best thing he had ever put in his little mouth. After the third bite, he said, "Done, Mom. Watch TV?" Fine!

I'm telling you, when kids turn 2, little demons are dispatched to occasionally invade their bodies and change their personalities in five- to 10-minute spurts at a time.

I feel like the Little Engine That Could - "I think I can, I think I can, I think I can ... raise this kid without killing him!"