Quinn starts most mornings with 2 bananas. Starts.
She's 19 months old. It sounds excessive because it is. I understand as the adult in these transactions I should impact and change this ritual of gluttony- but you see, I can't. She demands 'NANA'! more NANA!! with an increasing hostility that makes me dread her entry into the 'terrible two's'.
I've tried various ways to break this process. First I cut the banana into as many pieces as possible. I'm getting so skilled they're beginning to resemble poker chips. It doesn't slow her down though, she just double fists them while mumbling 'nana'! 'nana'! her face looking like a squirrel drunk with an entire winter's haul of nuts in its cheeks.
I also try to get her involved. I'll strip off the first segment and give her the banana to finish peeling. This gives me an additional 3 or 4 seconds to get the cutting board and knife out before the yelling begins. I feel like a contestant on Hells Kitchen but my daughter is Gordon Ramsey and I'm about to be sent packing.
Mid-way thru the second banana Quinny becomes somewhat reasonable and sated. Miller takes this lull in action to announce from the couch that he is hungry. He's more of a waffle guy and being three, he likes to do everything himself. Not in a generally efficient way but by himself none- the- less. A quick trip to the freezer and Miller is back on the couch eating a waffle. A frozen, rock solid waffle. I can't convince him to see the benefits of a toaster yet. Or the perils of loosing teeth but in his defense all the current ones are coming out anyway.
This incites Quinn to riot. How dare I deprive her of carbs- she begins to yell 'down!' 'DOWN!!! off the kitchen bar stool so she too, can go grab a frozen waffle- (damn those bottom loading appliances). I meet her demands out of fear and lack of caffeine.
Quinn follows Miller to the couch where the bickering begins- I'm happily not the target during this segment of our morning. 'Mine'! mine!! MINE!! mine!! Back and for they go, each one yelling progressively louder as to prove their waffle is most supreme.
Inevitably, the wrath of sweaty, tiny hands begins to thaw the waffles out- and the possession clock expires for both of their shrill voices- they begin eat the damn waffles, in silence.
I generally tune this out now that I've heard it a few hundred times- it's my moment to lean on the kitchen table and drink a cup of coffee-