If there was a market for stubbornly pouting toddlers, Clark would be a model. No, make that a supermodel. He had all the elements exactly right: pursed mouth, arms folded, entire body registering the "give me liberty or give me death" resistance of a very small young man who has no intention of doing something that unreasonable parents are demanding.
There was also a spoon impaled in the opposite wall.
"I said, Clark, that's enough." Martha had decided to settle the first issue first, the silverware hurling second. "Your father and I want you to eat them and you are going to eat them."
"Yucky."
"No, peas are not yucky, they taste good and they're good for you. You haven't even tasted one."
"Don't want to."
Martha suspected that this was really because Clark had found the peas too much fun to play with. And since none of this other toys tasted good, peas couldn't taste good either. That was the problem with kids; they were illogical in completely logical ways. Her eyes signaled an "Over to you" to Jonathan, who had retired defeated from the first round but seemed rested and ready to come back into the arena.
Her husband scooped up some of the offending spheres in a spoon. "Open wide, son, here they come." Clark clamped his lips tightly and shook his head until it was almost a blur. Martha was an instant too late in realizing that he was carrying out a second tactic. A tiny hand snaked up from underneath the table and swept all the remaining peas against the same wall where the spoon was embedded up to the last inch of its handle.
"We do *not* throw food, Clark." Martha was doing everything to avoid laughing at the way that Clark was trying to keep his mouth as firmly shut as before but also to grin at his own clever strategy, and was relieved that she was still able to sound stern.
For an instant, Clark looked abashed and then glanced up through his lashes at his parents. "Don't want to," he repeated, but in a more subdued voice.
"In this house, we taste things before we decide whether we like them or not," Jonathan answered, bringing the spoon back to Clark's mouth.
He opened it the tiniest possible crack that would admit the spoon and Martha breathed a sigh of relief as, with an exaggerated disgust, Clark chewed the mouthful, as though he was trying to keep the peas from contaminating his teeth or tongue.
She and Jonathan caught the return of the grin just a fraction of a second too late. With a delighted "ffffffffffffffppppppppppppptttttttttttt," Clark craned his head back as far as it could go and spurted the green mush towards the ceiling.
Apparently he felt he'd won the moral victory, as he placidly listened to their rebukes like a gracious diplotmat going through a tedious formality, and even accepted a timeout without the usual aggrieved look and stomping over to the chair. But he was generous in victory; when the five minutes were over, he sidled back for the usual quick hugs that he always wanted after a time out.
After he went up to his room, Martha opened the freezer and counted the remaining containers. "Five down, five to go," she muttered. "He's got to actually swallow some sometime, right?"
There was also a spoon impaled in the opposite wall.
"I said, Clark, that's enough." Martha had decided to settle the first issue first, the silverware hurling second. "Your father and I want you to eat them and you are going to eat them."
"Yucky."
"No, peas are not yucky, they taste good and they're good for you. You haven't even tasted one."
"Don't want to."
Martha suspected that this was really because Clark had found the peas too much fun to play with. And since none of this other toys tasted good, peas couldn't taste good either. That was the problem with kids; they were illogical in completely logical ways. Her eyes signaled an "Over to you" to Jonathan, who had retired defeated from the first round but seemed rested and ready to come back into the arena.
Her husband scooped up some of the offending spheres in a spoon. "Open wide, son, here they come." Clark clamped his lips tightly and shook his head until it was almost a blur. Martha was an instant too late in realizing that he was carrying out a second tactic. A tiny hand snaked up from underneath the table and swept all the remaining peas against the same wall where the spoon was embedded up to the last inch of its handle.
"We do *not* throw food, Clark." Martha was doing everything to avoid laughing at the way that Clark was trying to keep his mouth as firmly shut as before but also to grin at his own clever strategy, and was relieved that she was still able to sound stern.
For an instant, Clark looked abashed and then glanced up through his lashes at his parents. "Don't want to," he repeated, but in a more subdued voice.
"In this house, we taste things before we decide whether we like them or not," Jonathan answered, bringing the spoon back to Clark's mouth.
He opened it the tiniest possible crack that would admit the spoon and Martha breathed a sigh of relief as, with an exaggerated disgust, Clark chewed the mouthful, as though he was trying to keep the peas from contaminating his teeth or tongue.
She and Jonathan caught the return of the grin just a fraction of a second too late. With a delighted "ffffffffffffffppppppppppppptttttttttttt," Clark craned his head back as far as it could go and spurted the green mush towards the ceiling.
Apparently he felt he'd won the moral victory, as he placidly listened to their rebukes like a gracious diplotmat going through a tedious formality, and even accepted a timeout without the usual aggrieved look and stomping over to the chair. But he was generous in victory; when the five minutes were over, he sidled back for the usual quick hugs that he always wanted after a time out.
After he went up to his room, Martha opened the freezer and counted the remaining containers. "Five down, five to go," she muttered. "He's got to actually swallow some sometime, right?"