A true account of an incident that occurred when I babysat my younger cousins.
|It's dinner. I lay out three plates onto the kitchen table and serve equal portions of food onto each one. Three plates. One for myself, one for Devynn and one for Jamey.
I call for the two of them to come and eat. Jamey runs down the stairs, yelling as though he were a barbarian going into battle and I wince. I despise loud noises. Devynn follows, shrieking that Jamey is like, such a loser and how it's no wonder she's embarrassed to have friends over with him around.
They take their seats at the table and examine their food before picking up a utensil. Jamey shovels the meat into his face faster than he can swallow it and I wince again. I despise children with poor table manners.
Devynn moans that Jamey is like, such a little pig. I tell her to be quiet and tell Jamey not to inhale his food. Devynn heaves a dramatic sigh as though her being quiet was a punishment to the entire world. Typical. She soon finishes her meal and puts her plate, glass and fork in the sink before disappearing to her room. Within moments, I hear Hilary Duff blaring from her stereo upstairs. I wince. I despise Hilary Duff.
Jamey gets up to leave, most likely to play his video games. I scan his plate and warning bells go off. There is still green left on his plate. My aunt's words reverberate in my head, "Make sure he eats all his vegetables. Don't let him leave the table until he does."
"Jamey, you're not leaving this table until you eat those vegetables," I tell him.
The apocalypse unfolds.
Within moments, Jamey is on the floor, beating his fists against the ceramic tile and screaming. "I DON'T WANNA EAT 'EM! I DON'T WANNA!"
I heave a large sigh and cross my arms. This isn't unusual, but I don't have the energy to yell and scream back. I pick up my book and seat myself on the couch in the living room. I can still see Jamey in a fit of hysterics over his vegetables. "Go ahead. Cry all you like. It won't make the vegetables go away," I tell him, yawning as I open my book and pretend to read, but secretly watching the ill-mannered Jamey out of the corner of my eye.
The screams and cries of indignation continue for a time, but as I expect, the volume slowly decreases until he is whimpering, now sitting upright on the floor. "I wanna play my Playstation," he grumbles.
"You could have been playing Playstation fifteen minutes ago, but you decided to yell and cry instead. See how much time you wasted?"
Jamey starts crying again.
"Go ahead, keep crying. I don't mind at all. You'll just stay there with no Playstation until Aunt Michelle comes home," I sigh, flipping over a page in my book.
Jamey slumps his shoulders. I can smell defeat in the air and it's very sweet and satisfying. He drags himself into his chair and listlessly finishes off those vegetables before glaring sulkily at me and running upstairs to his precious Playstation. He leaves his dishes for me to clean up, but this last gesture of defiance makes no difference. He knows it as well as I do.
I win. I always win.