Hi everyone!

Welcome to another fascinating installment of:

My Children Are Weird. The Food Edition

Season 4 Episode 786

So, this morning I make cinnamon toast for the babies. Why? Because I am simply the best mom ever, and I have it on good authority (past roommate) that I happen to make the best cinnamon toast in the nation. Maybe all the nations. My cinnamon toast is the kind that divides and conquers, y’all. It’s the Cinnamon Manifesto of toast.

Anyhow. This conversation follows:

Red: Mom. I don’t want the toast.

Me: Ok. Uh. You do realize my toast is going to conquer the world, right? Like, if you take one bite it actually makes it possible for you to leap tall buildings AND always aim correctly, ok?

Red: Right. Anyhow, I don’t want the toast. I want cinnamon bread. The toast is too hard.

Momsie: Since when did we decide toast was “hard”? Yesterday I caught you gnawing on peanut brittle like a crazed squirrel.

Red: Yes. But that was after lunch. After lunch I can do the hard things.

Blonde: Also, I don’t want the cinnamon toast.

Momsie: Bread? Cinnamon bread, I suppose?

Blonde: No. Not at all. It makes my stomach feel funny. You see, it’s too sweet.

Momsie: Is this when I get to throw up my hands in despair and stalk out of the room, or is that later?

Blonde: I know that yesterday I had two cookies, some fudge, and about fifty Hershey’s kisses. Also that fruit tape stuff that tells you it’s all natural which is just a gateway food into understanding how everybody lies to us. But as for right NOW, especially since you have already PREPARED the cinnamon toast with a lot of care and not enough coffee,  I am saying no. No, I don’t want the cinnamon toast.

Momsie: So…  If I had not actually made the toast?

Blonde: I so woulda eaten that.

Momsie: So. The toast is a symbol.

Blonde: The toast is a symbol. Yes. I told you, everybody lies. It’s a hard lesson but I am here to teach it to you. In a cute way.

Momsie: I am so depressed right now. But here, Red, here is your… cinnamon… bread.

Red: Brace yourself. I am now going to push the plate away like you just brought me a steaming bowl of bird poop. And then I’ma gonna lay my head down on the table because you have betrayed me.

Momsie: Thank you for that poop visual, son. It takes a lot of birds to get a bowl going on in that one.

Red: I know, right? But back to me. This bread. It’s too buttery. And you know I don’t like buttery.

Momsie: Surely there is some sort of reprogramming center you can go to for that. Not liking buttery? This is shunning material here. Also, you don’t like to dip your carrots in ranch dressing. You like carrots, just NO dressing. This proves you are an imposter.

Blonde: I like buttery! Just without the bread. And the cinnamon. So, just some butter with sugar, please.

Momsie: I think it’s time.

Blonde: Yes. Yes! That’s your cue. Now is when you can throw your hands up and walk out of the room. But don’t leave too long, for as much as we are irritated with you right now, we still want you to always be in the SAME room with us as all time.

Red: I agree. It’s in our nature. We are heat-seeking missiles and you’re the underpaid target, lady.  Oh, and? When you come back I am going to repeatedly ask you to scrape the butter off of my bread but still, somehow, leave the sugar and cinnamon intact. So, defy the laws of physics. Before 8 am. Just a head’s up.

The end.