Toast is the Answer

So, last night Ivan was a little tired and cranky. He would not abide anything other than to be held constantly, which made unloading the dishwasher and feeding the kitty (or the “titty,” as he calls her) somewhat unwieldy.

At one point, Ivan spied something he wanted – probably two rooms over, probably using his special toddler x-ray vision that allows him to spy a Dunkin Donuts bag from fifty yards away, but not see the coffee table corner right in front of him – and flipped out that this item was not immediately delivered to him.

Since the subsequent thrashing and flailing threatened to injure both myself and his own person, I laid him down on the floor so he could finish his tantrum in peace and relative safety.

I tried tickling him. I tried singing. I tried speaking reasonably to him, having forgotten that I was dealing with a toddler.

Finally, in a final effort, I offered him some cold, unappetizing toast. He abruptly stopped screaming, grabbed the toast, and shot me a look as if to say “Give me that fucking toast already, for God’s sake!!” And then proceeded to quietly eat his toast, still laying on the floor, splayed out mid-tantrum.

This is why I love him.

A tickle- and giggle-fest followed the toast, and happiness was restored.