I was happily making banana muffins the other day, because ya know, I'm all domestic like that ...
Can't you picture me? My hair and make up perfectly done. Dress ironed. Apron fitting just right. Children dutifully fetching every ingredient I need, without incident.
Yeah ... me neither.
Strategically timing the mixing of the flour, sugar and bananas, I had Emily and Molly eating their lunch. Peacefully. I'm serious. When the last bite had been taken, Emily asked me for a granola bar. I asked her to wait for just a minute, as my hands were dirty and I was in the process of mixing the batter for the muffins.
To make a long story short ... Emily threw a tantrum because she had to wait. Actually more than a tantrum ... a full fledged conniption fit, face down on the floor, throwing her fists into the carpet and her mouth wide open yelling all sorts of things resembling, "Mommy you are the meanest Mommy ever ..." yadda yadda yadda, ya know, the norm ... therefore, losing any chance at obtaining a granola bar.
Fast forward about 45 minutes. The smell of banana muffins filled the kitchen and little tummies were hungry again. After all, it had been 45 minutes ... like I said.
The following conversation took place:
Emily: Mom, can I have a banana muffin?
Me: After the fit you just threw?
Emily: That fit was about the granola bar, THIS fit is going to be about a banana muffin?
Thanks for the fair warning. I'll brace myself.
