I’m delighted to report that my 5-year-old son delivered a bananagram last night at dinner.
One must understand that my son's sophisticated palate and particular needs require him to consume a separate meal from the rest of us most mealtimes. As my husband says, "Something's always too something for something with Griffin." Toothpaste is "too spicy," apples often "too cold." This morning, Griffin complained, "My chair's too curvy for my cereal."
Now, I’m no gourmet, but I do try to produce nutritious sustenance for my children. And yesterday evening I was actually proud of the apple, sausage and rice mash that I had whipped up during an episode of "Max and Ruby." Griffin was not impressed. He opted, instead, for his usual Cheerios and banana.
About halfway through the meal, my son started gagging – not on my cooking – but on his banana. He was not choking. Griffin does not have eosinophilic esophagitis. This was just his way of showing that he was not enjoying his food.
Griffin did have the sense, this time, to move toward our $100, flip-top trash can, which he opened with his hands instead of with the foot pedal. He then expelled the offending banana, not into the garbage sack, but down the back of the pail and into the slot between the wall and the baseboard heater.
"Fish it out," I growled.
"I can’t," Griffin cried, half-heartedly flopping a paw at the crevice. "It’s too gross."
After watching his arthritic attempts for as long as I could stand it, I grabbed a knife and a paper towel (and considered killing my son). Instead, I turned to scraping out the mutilated banana. Griffin seized this opportunity to ask for a "treat." I raised a fist.
"What’s that?" he asked.
"That’s what you’ll get," I said, "if you ever give me another bananagram."