A deep, disappointed sigh came from the back seat. The mother glanced in the rearview mirror and met her son’s eyes. The five-year-old’s face radiated a mix of sadness and irritation.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, unaware of the storm brewing.
She was expecting something easily fixable—maybe the seatbelt felt funny, or he couldn’t kick off his shoes before the long drive.
“You put triangle cheese spread in it,” the boy said, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Yes,” the mother replied in a cheerful tone, still clinging to hope. “Because you like it! You know,” she reminded her little one, whose tastes changed weekly, “I’ve packed you butter and triangle cheese spread sandwiches before.”
“But I don’t even like it.”
His tone turned defiant, his gaze darkened.
“Of course you do,” she tried gently.
“I never liked it. I only ate it because I had to.”
Okay. Rerouting. Her mom-brain scanned for solutions at lightning speed. Stopping to go to a store was not an option—not with two little kids in the middle of a long trip. They’d arrive after dark anyway, and she hated driving at night. The glare from oncoming headlights bothered her eyes. Once it got dim outside, she didn’t even dare overtake.
“You know what?” she said, hope flickering again. “Just take out the cheese slices carefully and put them back in the lunchbox. You can eat a butter roll now. That’s delicious too. I’d gladly eat it myself.”
“You can’t take the cheese out,” the boy muttered sulkily.
“Of course you can.”
“No, you can’t. It’s all smushed.”
“It’s not smushed. I didn’t spread it—I just put the slices in.”
At a red light, the mother stopped the car and turned around. The boy stared her straight in the eyes, then pressed the roll together with both small hands. He split it open and held it up to his mother, who stared at it with wide, astonished eyes.
“See? You can’t take it out. It’s totally smushed.”
The car rolled on again. A wave of frustration washed over the mother.
Well now she definitely wasn’t stopping for a new snack. A five-year-old could survive three more hours hungry. He had water. He’d be fine.
And besides—after this? No way. That little rascal! He massaged the damn cheese into the bread on purpose? Seriously? Who does that at five?
Nope. No new snack. And she wasn’t giving him his sister’s food either—she wasn’t the one having a “moment” right now. No, and no.
“So what happens now?” the boy asked defiantly.
“What do you think? You’ll have a nice dinner at Grandma’s.”
“And until then?” His little voice turned wobbly, on the verge of tears.
“Until then, we drive, look out the window, and talk.”
“But what am I going to eat?”
“Your snack.”
“But I don’t like triangle cheese spread.”
“Then take it out.”
“I can’t. It’s smushed.”
“I didn’t smush it.”
“Doesn’t matter who smushed it—it can’t be taken out now.”
The mother was running out of patience, but she didn’t want to argue. She knew her son had inherited her stubborn streak, so she couldn’t truly be mad at him.
“I’m very sorry, sweetheart,” she said flatly. “But if you hadn’t squished that roll so hard just to push that miserable cheese into the butter, you’d be full by now.”
The boy seemed to surrender. He quietly placed the sandwich back into his train-patterned lunchbox and leaned back in his seat.
Silence settled over the car. The mother kept her eyes on the road. The little girl slept with her mouth slightly open, curled up in her padded jacket. The boy stared out the window, his brow furrowed.
“You know…” the five-year-old finally said, “having a kid isn’t just about giving birth. You have to raise them too.”
The mother bit her lip to keep from laughing out loud. Though still annoyed, she didn’t want to mock her visibly upset child.
With her shoulders shaking from silent laughter, she gripped the steering wheel and couldn’t wait to tell someone what her preschooler had just thrown at her.