his waffle

Today on why we had a second kid: Every morning when he wakes up, Joe gets a waffle. Simple, right? No. Hell no. Maybe it used to be? There was a time, oh, there was a time, when it could be any waffle. But over time, as Joe’s desire to control his world has expanded, the waffle and the experience of receiving the waffle has become more and more specific, and loaded with land mines. So in case you’re in charge of Joe one morning, here’s what you need to know: Get him out of bed, and ask if he wants a waffle. (Don’t be an IDIOT and have already PREPARED the waffle.) He’s going to say Yes. Let him sit at his chair, where his milk should ALREADY be waiting, you FOOL. Get the box of waffles — NOT BUTTERMILK OR WHOLE GRAIN WAFFLES, YOU BAFOON, BUT THE PROTEIN VANS DARK WAFFLES — from the fridge, and present them to him like you’re a damn sommelier. Once he APPROVES the waffle kind, let him WATCH YOU PUT IT IN THE TOASTER, and if he requests to press the toaster lever down himself, LET HIM DO IT, YOU MONSTER. Once the waffle is ready, sit near him, but not TOO near, and tear off the waffle’s crust, doling out small pieces of waffle like a craps table dealer DIRECTLY onto his table, NOT ON A PLATE OR A BOWL, YOU MORON, onto the TABLE. Watch him eat it, but do not speak to him unless spoken to. He will eat anywhere from a third of the waffle to none of it. When he’s finished, he’ll tell you by abandoning whatever’s left. Do not TOUCH the remaining cold waffle shards until after he’s left for school, or it’s your funeral. Removing the waffle before he’s done — which could hours later — is cause for Death. If you’re his mother, spend every morning bending to his small table to wipe off the crumbs, while questioning your parenting choices, doing the math of waffle waste, but never your love for him, simply Never.

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