On the way home from a long wait at the doctor, I gave 5-year-old BoyWonder a Ziploc bag of tortilla chips in the car.
Our conversation after he finished them off:
Can I have some more chips, please?
No, we’ll be home soon, and then I’m going to make lunch. No more chips for now.
Just a little bit?
Nope. We’ll be home in like ten minutes.
Please?
No, no more chips, sweetie.
Just a few chips?
Noooo, no more chips. You just ate a full bag of them.
Just one chip?
NO. No more chips means NO. MORE. CHIPS.
Half a chip?
Oh for the love, kiddo. NO MORE MEANS NO MORE. NONE. NADA. FINITO.
(Pause.)
So how many chips can I have, then?
(Forehead meets steering wheel.)
The real kicker is that it’s not like he was being whiny or getting upset. He remained perfectly calm during this entire interchange, asking each time as if it were an entirely new idea. It was basically the verbal version of Chinese water torture.
Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.
Chip. Chip. Chip. Chip.
THIS. THIS IS WHERE GRAY HAIR COMES FROM, FRIENDS.
It’s also why God makes them so darned cute. Still no chips for you, though, little monkey.
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