Right now, Andy is in the kitchen SCREAMING his head off. He asked for a cheese sandwich for lunch. Wayne made him one. He took two bites and walked away. After explaining that he was wasting food and that we don't waste food, he started screaming and stomping his feet. I picked him up, carried him to the kitchen and plunked him on the chair in front of the sandwich.
I'd be more understanding if it was some strange, new dish that I was trying, but this is the same sandwich that he has been eating every day for months. I am not putting up with this nonsense from him. He asked for it, he's going to eat it.
He came running back over to where I am sitting, screaming. I picked him up and put him back. He was crying so hard that I thought he might throw up. Now he's calm and keeps calling out, "Mommy!" and then telling me I am hurting his feelings. Now it's, "Mommy, I am talking to you."
Isn't this supposed to get easier at some point.
ETA: When he finally calmed down I walked over and sat next to him. I explained again that we don't waste food and that I will not tolerate temper tantrums from such a big boy, that if he's screaming at me I won't hear him, I won't look at him, it will be like he's invisible. I promised that if he talked to me with respect, that I would talk to him the same way. Then I asked what I could do to make him want the sandwich. He asked me to cut the crusts off. I did and he ate it.
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Or maybe I'm getting confused with the aftermath of the Anita Blake/Edward Cullen deathmatch. Well, whatever. Either a sparkle vampire was put out of his misery or else it was death by sandwich. My life is full of stuff like that.