No, Apparently, He Can't Wait Two Minutes

Kyle is hungry.

No, he's starving.

"I'mmm starving," he's moaning. "Need food. Must have it now."

The current object of his focus is a Vita Muffin--a sort of healthyish chocolate muffin top.

He can get a Vita Muffin for himself, but prefers it warmed up in the toaster oven, which in our cramped New York City apartment, is on a shelf too high for him to reach.

"Two minutes," I promise.

He waits at least ten seconds. "Now? Will you make it now?" he asks hopefully.

"No, in a minute and 50 seconds," I reply, feeling my shoulders begin to tense up.

You know how this goes, right?

Every ten to fifteen seconds, Kyle repeats his request for a warm chocolate Vita Muffin, as my shoulders continue to rise toward my ears.

Even my threat of, "Every time you ask about it, your waiting time gets longer!" fails to clamp down on the begging.

As he begs, I scurry around, making the bed, picking up towels from the bathroom floor and giving the sink a quick wipedown. Still, the broken-record that is my ten-year-old continues.

Finally, I snap. "Two minutes! That's all I ask for! Is that too long for you to wait?"

He looks at me wide-eyed. "No, Mom, that's fine," he says, suddenly speaking in a most reasonable tone. "Sheesh, you don't have to get so annoyed."

He glances at his little brother Seth. "Watch out, Mom's really cranky tonight," he said. "I don't know what that's about."