Max has PMS. For two days he has been wandering around the house moaning, weeping, wailing and eating all the Oreos. Yesterday morning, I made everyone German pancakes, my favorite breakfast recipe since the time my sister, April, brought it home from her seventh grade Home Ec class.
Max was bawling for “pizza”, which actually just means “food” to him. (And maybe that’s because 99% of his diet is pizza, but it’s hard to know for sure.) I was busily syrupping his beautiful fluffy pancake and cutting it up into bite-size portions. I set the plate in front of him and he started bawling even harder. I held a forkful to his lips and he started bawling even harder. I lovingly encouraged him and he started bawling even harder. I set the fork down and walked away to calm down. Or to stick my arm down the garbage disposal for relief. One of the two.
Then he got down from his chair and put himself in time out.
After several minutes, he made his way back to the pancake and had a few bites.
“See, Max? It’s yuuummmmy,” I said.
“AAAAAAAAAAACCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKK!” he said, which means, “Silence, woman! I will shoot fire out of my eyes if you dare speak to me again!”
Then, I understood. When he finished eating I scooped him up, set him in my bed, propped the pillows behind his back, handed him a fresh bag of Doritos, and turned on the TV to Lifetime Television for Women.
And everything was fine after that.
