Claiming to be “starving to death” at 11 AM, the boys talked me into making them an early lunch. (This after an early-morning stop for a snack at a coffee shop while the car was at the mechanic.)
I asked Lyle what he wanted to eat first, suggesting he’d like the leftover pasta that he loved for dinner the other night. He looked excited, then stopped himself. “What do you want, Baxter?” he asked.
“Lyle, please. You can just tell me what you want. You don’t need to eat the same thing as your brother,” I implored, knowing that his big brother doesn’t like pasta and these leftovers will just sit there forever if he bases his answer on Baxter’s, given that his parents are on a very low-carb diet. [And I’d rather make two separate lunches if it means we’ll eat the leftovers rather than throwing them out.]
“Peanut butter and honey, please,” replied Baxter, predictably.
“Okay! I want that, too!” said Lyle brightly.
Lyle doesn’t like peanut butter and honey. He likes peanut butter and jelly. Or pasta.
This is a new phenomenon and it drives me batty, but not as batty as it drives Baxter. Which leads him to a variety of “tricks” to get his brother to choose something different from him, and in the end I get so fed up, standing there holding a jar of peanut butter like a total idiot waiting for the end of insane answers like, “I want slugs, then!” and “I actually want peanut butter and jellyhoney,” that I wind up putting all of the choices on the counter and telling them they can just make their own [damn] sandwiches and they can call me when they’re at the [friggin’] table, and I walk out of the [godforsaken] kitchen.
The [blessed] end.