Today, I thought I would share an old story from 2006. Younger would have been seven years old . . .
Younger does not like chicken. Not even a little. And mashed potatoes are only a little higher on his list. So, yesterday, at school, for lunch, he ate grapes. Then he wanted Pop Tarts immediately upon his arrival at home. Instead, I fixed him a plate of leftovers – meatloaf and corn. And, later, when he was still hungry, he consumed a corn muffin.
I thought he had been appeased. But, apparently, I was temporarily insane, from which I was cured at bedtime when Younger’s caterwauling echoed through the house.
“Younger.” My husband stuck his head in the boy’s bedroom. “What is wrong now?”
“I’m hungry,” he wailed.
“I’m sorry,” my husband responded, leaving the child to persevere in his attempt at pitiful moaning.
But after a few more minutes of his racket, I climbed the stairs. “Younger, I want you to stop. Now. Or you won’t be able to play Nintendo tomorrow.”
“What does tomorrow matter,” he cried dramatically, “when I’ll starve to death tonight?”
And it was at that point that even I started to doubt he would live until morning.