When You Should Be Studying For A Midterm…

…your day becomes a comedy of errors.

You watch as your husband tell your three year old that it is cool to play with a pair of dice that is very important to him as long as the three year old is careful. You know this is going to end very badly. A few minutes after your husband leaves for work your three year old starts screaming hysterically that one of the dice fell down the hole. He meant the heat register. Now, this will be a legitimate accident, dude did not do it on purpose. But you (hello anxiety disorder) will be sure the die will somehow catch fire and the house will burn down. When you float this theory to your husband over the phone he will laugh so hard he will be unable to speak for a few moments. Whatever, husband. What. Ever.

Five minutes before your babysitter is scheduled to arrive the doc’s office will call telling you that the doc is stuck in surgery and your appointment will now be an hour and a half later. You will understand. Hell, if surgery gets complicated with your son you want the doc to move around appointements as well. But here’s the thing. You are scary broke. And now you are going to need to pay your babysitter an extra $20. Which really means something these days, so you are super pissed.

You get to the doc’s. You haven’t been there before and you find the parking lot for the building, although you don’t feel good about all the signs saying you need a parking pass. You check in and ask if it’s cool to be parked in the lot. It is not cool. You need to collect your squirmy 18 month old and wait for the elevator that smells like someone chain smoked a pack and a half within 15 minutes, walk through the slushy lot in the rain, find a spot on the street, and then hustle back to the office. This really isn’t anyones fault, but it has been a trying day and you are starting to freak out.

In the exam room the nurse tells you that your son can’t have the surgery if he has pneumonia recently and you try not to cry. Thankfully this turns out to be untrue, but holy shit you are now actively having an anxiety attack. She then wants to know what is up with the rash on C’s face. The rash that started on his eyelids this weekend and spread to encircle his mouth after a few days. The rash that you have been studiously ignoring after googling “eyelid rash” and finding out it means he has cancer. You tell her you do not know what is up with it. When the doc come in he also wants to know what is up with the rash. You realize you need to call the pediatrician.

Back at home it is now nearly 4 and you leave a message on the nurse hotline explaining the rash situation. A nurse calls back and asked how fast can you get there. Your heart sinks as you say 20 minutes. You start herding the cats that are your sons towards the back door. The eldest is particularly difficult. Once outside you warn him not to fool around in the snow as that is where he fell down last week. After strapping the little one in his car seat you turn to see the big one seated and stuck in what little remains of the snow bank. You yell at him to get up. He yells back that he can’t. You go grab him and he is crying because his pants are wet. He hates when any part of him is wet when he is cold. In a mother-of-the-year moment you tell him it really isn’t your problem. You told him to stay away from the snow, if his pants are wet at the doc’s he shall just have to deal. He cries a lot.

As you are driving to the doc’s both boys wail and you feel like Homer Simpson at the end of the New York City episode when the kids are asking when they can go back and the windshield is busted out and they are behind a garbage truck and trash is whipping into his face (Incidentally, tied with the Lisa-becomes-a-vegetarian episode for my all time favorite).

At the doc’s the nurse practitioner has no clue what the rash is. She decides to grab C’s doc. She also has no idea what the rash is. They both are sure it isn’t an allergic reaction to the antibiotics. So you go home to make dinner, confused about why you just spent another $25 you don’t have on nothing.

You finally can study at 8pm after the kids are down.

And scene.


Studying. Mid term at 2. Freaking out. Wish me luck.

study fooling around

Cool light in my bedroom.

face rash

Rash on face.

eyelid rash

Rash on eyelids.

t beautiful t

He drives me nuts, but he is hella adorable. #nofilter


Big Week

C has been consistently taking his daily shit while I’m in the shower for the last week or so. I like to pretend that he understands I’m struggling a bit right now and just wants to do what he can to make my life a little better. Yes, it sucks for Z. But I can’t help it. I love not changing his crap diapers. Love. It. The hubris involved in even writing these sentences means my poop-free streak (poop. streak. get it?) will surely end tomorrow. I don’t even care. The last few feces free days have more than made up for it.

Another thing that has been making my crazy a bit more bearable is writing here almost every day. Clicking the publish button is like hitting a release valve. It feels good to have a place where I can admit that my crazy is real, or parenting is hard, or that I’m a feminist, damn it.

But sometimes life starts happening. This week I have a midterm for the class I’ve been taking, Right to Food And Nutrition.  We didn’t have exams at Sarah Lawrence and this is the first graduate level class I’ve ever attempted, so I’m kind of shitting bricks over the midterm situation. By the end of the semester I need to have a term paper completed that is 15-20 pages plus a bibliography. The cool part is we were able to pick our own topics and I’m writing about the possibility of encouraging breastfeeding in the United States using a rights based approach. And one thing we did do at Sarah Lawrence was write. But I’m also freaking out a bit about carving out the time to research and produce. Wednesday C and I have his pre-op visit because he is getting tubes in his ears on March 12th. At the end of the week a dear friend is coming to visit. I’m excited about spending time with her because I see her so rarely. So it might be a bit quiet around her for a week or so.

But I’ll be back.

day of the week

T got awesome new Day Of The Week underwear. An aviation theme this time.

snacking on bother's dinner

Snacking on Big Brother’s abandoned dinner.

full belly

Getting some tummy rubs after eating a huge meal. Remember not to unload that food until I’m safely in the shower, C!

Wearing the Crazypants

The other night I was having an extravagant anxiety attack. After dinner Z suggested T and I cuddle on the sofa and watch Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. T was being cute so I snapped a couple of pictures of him and then I started to wonder what an anxiety attack looked like. So I turned the camera on myself.

anxiety attackAnxiety attack in progress.

One of the super weird parts of this crazy business is there aren’t always outward signs that an illness exists. Hell, I’m even smiling a little in the photo. But I’m not ok in the picture. Not by a long shot.

And I want to write about what that actually means, I really do. But the thing is I’m fighting another anxiety attack. The world continues to move at regular speed, but I can’t keep up because the air is so heavy it hurts as it presses against my skin. My brain is no longer communicating effectively with my mouth. Pretending I’m functioning human like the other Moms when I drop T off at school and pick him up takes up all my energy and concentration for the day. I felt fat when I woke up this morning. The scale confirmed I weigh several pounds more than the last time I dared take a look. And as the day progressed I swear that my clothing got tighter. By 5pm I was sure I’m morbidly obese. I thought about every calorie I put in my mouth yet made no sensible changes, just felt disgust as I ate more and more.

I hate myself.

I’ve been trying to write this post all day. All week really. And it is still coming out wrong. My slow and vulnerable and anxious brain can’t make sense of the ideas I know are trapped inside.

So just a friendly public service announcement for today. The mentally ill look normal a lot of the time. It would be helpful if we got a rash that spelled out “Handle With Care” when the crazy takes hold. But alas, it isn’t that easy. We get stuck deep within ourselves and we need help getting unstuck. Even if we can’t figure out how to articulate that something is wrong.

.sweet t

Here’s one of the photos I snapped of T the other night. He is a beautiful kid.

Z cute

After years of practice this handsome man knows when the crazy has taken over my body. Thank fucking god.

Doctor’s Office

Thursday we rushed into the doc’s office, barely on time as usual. C developed a fever on Tuesday morning, but it stayed below 102 until two days later. Kid was burning up and when I took his temp it was 102.9. Didn’t seem like I could blame the fever on the fact that two teeth are breaking through anymore. And frankly, I’ve been on a hair trigger with him since the events of early January.

At the check-in counter I had C on my hip and was digging through my purse for the wallet when I glanced up. My breath caught in my throat. Walking towards me was a boy of probably twelve or thirteen. He moved with the awkwardness of a very young man who had recently and improbably shot up to over 6 feet tall. He was skinny as a rail, but his face had not yet lost the softness of childhood. His coloring was just like my boys. For a few moments until I caught myself I stared slack jawed at him. Suddenly there were tears in my eyes. I blinked them away and resumed the hunt for my debit card.

Babies and little kids fill the waiting room of our pediatrician’s office. Older kids seem to visit with less frequency. The tall boy caught me off guard, I wasn’t expecting to see someone his age. While genetics basically ensure neither of my boys will ever see a height of 6 feet the fact remained that the boy looked enough like my guys to be their big brother. What I saw when I looked at him was them in a decade.

The boys have been sick for what feels like months. They can’t seem to catch a break this year. Which means night time is pretty hellacious. Last night I was out of bed five times-twice for the big kid, three times for the little one. C has gotten worse since Thursday and was back at the doc’s yesterday morning. He has pneumonia. T has a cold and while he is doing fine during the day, he is a stuffed up mess at night and it keeps waking him up. So the boys are sick and Z and I are exhausted. We don’t remember what it feels like to get a good night of sleep, although we did have the one in December. There is a big part of us that cannot fucking wait until it is a few years from now. The kids will be sleeping through the night, so we will be sleeping through the night. The kids will be able to occupy themselves so we have a tiny bit of our lives back. Our day to day is a little brutal right now.


I already look at pictures of T when he was a baby and can’t remember the feeling of holding him in my arms. C is the last baby I’m going to have. And the truth is he isn’t a baby anymore. Through our sleep deprivation and general exhaustion Z and I forget to marvel at the wonderful parts of our current life. T wraps himself in his bath towel every night while curled up in my lap and he pretends the towel is a shell and he hatches out. C is a cuddler and is constantly trying to bury his face in our necks. They are small enough that we can scoop them into our arms and really hold their perfect and tiny bodies. They still let us hug and kiss them whenever we want.

So that big kid at the doc’s office.

Man, seeing him broke my heart. Because I am going to blink one day and my boys will be his size. I think I’m so ready to skip past this hard part and get into the meat of the parenting business. But that is bullshit. It’s going to go too fast, all of it.

I wonder if that boy’s mom caught a glimpse of C. If she did I wonder if her eyes filled with tears as well, if she considered how fast the years had gone, if she felt like her boy was C’s size just yesterday, if she was shocked to realize she couldn’t exactly imagine what it was like to hold him close when he was just 21 pounds and fit perfectly on her hip.

robot robot

Z chasing the sick robots.

playing at the warehouse

T hammering away during a visit to Daddy’s work.

sick guy working

Pneumonia didn’t stop C from hanging with his dad in the shop this morning.

What follows is a typical conversation concerning the physical health of our kiddos:

“Have you noticed the rash on C’s eyelids?” Z, “Nope.” Me, “Hmm, you should take a look. And I’m going to google it.” Z, “Jesus Christ, Karen. Don’t. Please. Don’t.” Me, “Too late….and the first hit for “rash on eyelids” involves cancer.” Z, “I told you.” Me, “I’m sorry. You were right. Navigating away from the search right now.”

Hey Dude, It’s Not Always About You

In March of last year Andrew Sullivan posted a video by the Washington City Paper called The Terror of Catcalling, Ctd. The next day he posted a reader’s comment:

You struck a nerve with this one, as I was just discussing this very thing a few weeks ago with a group of high-school freshmen in my English class. We were discussing homosexuality because of an allusion to it in the book we were reading, and several boys made comments such as, “That’s disgusting.” We got into the debate and eventually a boy admitted that he was terrified/disgusted when he was once sharing a taxi and the other male passenger made a pass at him.

The lightbulb went off. “Oh,” I said. “I get it. See, you are afraid, because for the first time in your life you have found yourself a victim of unwanted sexual advances by someone who has the physical ability to use force against you.” The boy nodded and shuddered visibly.

“But,” I continued. “As a woman, you learn to live with that from the time you are fourteen, and it never stops. We live with that fear every day of our lives. Every man walking through the parking garage the same time you are is either just a harmless stranger or a potential rapist. Every time.”

The girls in the room nodded, agreeing. The boys seemed genuinely shocked.

“So think about that the next time you hit on a girl. Maybe, like you in the taxi, she doesn’t actually want you to.”

The quote has been making its way around the internets ever since. A couple of days ago a guy who I went to high school with posted it on FB. I immediately “liked” it because I think it really gets to the heart of the matter-men sometimes don’t understand what it is like to live your life looking over your shoulder all the time.

Now wait a sec, you might say. Isn’t that a little over dramatic? Who do you think you are? Some hot little piece of tail that just has the guys lined up waiting to sexually assalt you?

That isn’t the way it works. Sexual assault is not about guys being horny. It is about violence. And control. And asserting your will over someone who is weaker than you. According to the CDC, which last I checked was not some crazy left wing feminist organization, nearly 1 in 5 women will be raped in her lifetime. Nearly 20% of all women. Let that sink in for a sec, guys. Do you have 5 women in your life? For instance, a Mom, two Grandmas, a wife, a daughter? So yeah, one of them.

Ok, ok. You say. I know all this stuff. What are you getting so riled up about? I’ll tell you why I’m riled. A guy who I don’t know commented on the quote on my friend’s page and his response has festered in my head ever since. So I’m trying to respond reasonably to the spirit of his argument  which I think is fairly typical of a certain type of white American dudes in his 20s (yes I FB stalked him enough to ascertain that much about him).

So what did he say that has me so upset? First of all, I’m not going to quote directly. I’m not going to share his name and try to embarrass him. He’ll actually never see this anyway. And it wouldn’t be fair to my fb friend.

The kid asks if the upshot is you can’t hit on anybody ever. He disagrees because you can’t know if someone is interested unless you ask. You just need to respect people’s views after you ask. Then he goes on to say it’s ok to be cool with gay people but also ok not to be cool with them.

Are you surprised I’m so worked up over something that seems rather benign? It’s certainly no diatribe against women or gays. In fact, he’s probably is a nice guy who is decent to the women in his life. His FB cover photo makes me think he has a good heart. So why am I so fucking pissed?

A certain kind of white dude who thinks he is a nice guy (A certain kind, I’m not saying every single nice guy white dude in America ) has a pretty big problem. He can’t fucking get out of his own head and put himself in someone else’s shoes for a second. He thinks “I’m a good guy. I’m not going to make a woman uncomfortable, why shouldn’t I be able to hit on anyone I want? Why should my freedoms be impinged upon? I’m harmless anyway.”

Well, here’s the deal, nice guy. This isn’t about you. Did you read the quote? A freshman in high school hates gays because a guy hit on him in a cab. The age of the guy isn’t clear, but the fact that he is bigger and could overpower the kid is. The kid is scared and uncomfortable during the interaction. “But I would never make someone I’m interested in uncomfortable.” you say. Yes, may I remind you that this isn’t about you?

And also, how do you know?

A woman comes to every new interaction with a history, the sum of every interaction that has proceeded it. She has not only spoken with “nice guys”. She has no idea what kind of guy you are. She is wary, she might be a little frightened. With absolutely no extra information besides the fact that you are hitting on her how the hell is she supposed to immediately get that you are a “nice guy”? Think about how she must feel for a minute. In fact, take more than a minute. Really think about the fact that women are scared every single time they are alone in a parking garage and pass a man. Every single time. That is truth. That is real. Things have gotten pretty good for women in America, but there are still major problems. It’s uncomfortable. You might not want to deal with it. But it is reality.

And if that woman is raped? If the thing she has feared for most of her life happens? She doesn’t receive automatic support and help. Nope. Instead she is asked, “What did you do?” a million different ways. “Did you drink? Did you flirt? Were you not careful? Did you lead him on? Was your skirt too short? Did you make him angry?” “Why were you out so late?” “Why were you walking there alone?” And every question means, “This was your fault.” Please, imagine the woman that is being asked these questions isn’t just some slutty coed, but one of the five closest women in your life. Pretty terrible, huh?

Of course you should be able to approach a woman you are interested it. But may I suggest just talking to her? Trying to get to know her? If you hit on her you put her on the defensive.  And that, my friend, probably isn’t going to work out for you in the long run. So sorry to cramp your style, or your constitutional right to mack, or whatever. Your consolation prize is you don’t have to be scared when you walk through a parking garage. See? You still win.

So when you are faced with an issue involving the treatment of women I beg you to get out of your head and imagine life from their point of view for a moment. If you are saying, “But I should be able to because I’m a nice guy” you are completely missing the point. It’s like saying to a woman, “You don’t have to lock the door to your car! I’m a nice guy and I would NEVER steal from you, so you are totally good!” Pretty ludicrous right?

One more thing-about the “ok not to like gays” part (and that is a direct quote)-I noticed on your FB page that you are a Christian. Being cool with not liking a group of people because of a feature they were born with-skin color, religion, ethnicity, or sexual orientation is pretty unchristian. It is also ignorant and bigoted. Sorry, I just can’t be politic about this issue. Not liking someone based on their sexual orientation is flat out wrong. There are no two sides to the issue. And I’m not saying you should like everyone and let’s hold hands and kumbaya.  Hell, I don’t like tons of people. But I don’t like them for reasons. Not because they are members of a minority. That isn’t ok.

***UPDATE January 28, 2014***

The very day I posted this almost a year ago it began to bother me that I used the term “slutty coed” within the piece. I’ve thought about editing it ever since. The term was meant to be tongue in cheek. Obviously there is no hierarchy of who deserves to be raped (and I’m not even touching on how the term “slutty coed” is dripping with misogyny). Rape is rape. I was making a joke out of anger and it reads as small and lazy. It doesn’t seem like a joke, it seems like I actually think an anonymous college student deserves to be raped more than your Mom. The idea that anyone would think that is what I actually meant makes me sick to my stomach. And it is my own fault, a result of my own poor writing. So much time has passed since posting this that I don’t feel like an edit would be honest. Instead I’ll say this: If I was writing this piece today I’d find a less lazy way of expressing the thought.

Ok. I feel marginally better now that I’ve gotten that off my chest.

silly t

Man, things got a little intense around here for a minute! How about a picture of T being crazy to sort of lighten the mood a bit…

Late Night, Early Morning

Last night I was up till after midnight, which was both highly unusual and entirely my own fault. The boys get up in the 6 o’clock hour most days. I’m not a morning person and need a lot of sleep, so usually bedtime is around 10.

Z had to go back in to work last night and I had grand plans to watch the new episode of NCIS while eating a large bowl of popcorn. But when I stopped off in our bedroom to put my Nook on the shelf (Yep, I read while nursing C instead of staring lovingly into his eyes. Yep, I nurse my kid who is nearly 18 months old.) I grabbed the copy of The Fault In Our Stars that my friend R had given me for Christmas. This week on facebook a woman who was my next door neighbor back in the 70s, who I haven’t seen since about 1980 (Again, got to say it. Facebook is so fucking amazing.) had been posting about the awesomeness of the book as she read it. I opened it to the first page.

Half an hour later and realized there would be no NCIS. The book had completely sucked me in and I was going to read it until the end. About an hour after that I got up to pee. When I caught sight of myself in the mirror while washing my hands I was violently jerked back to reality for a moment. I’d actually forgotten about me. My life felt like the fiction. The story was were I lived. It was vibrant and clear and most of all real.

I don’t care about elegant sentence construction and literary merit. I understand that stuff has a place, but what matters to me is the feeling a book evokes and my best reading experience is one that is all consuming. There is very little in this world that gives me greater joy.

Listen, I’m an introvert with a wicked anxiety disorder. Some days it physically hurts to make my way through the world. When I’m in public or around people I don’t know well the unrelenting voice in my head tells me I’m an embarrassment, I’m stupid, if people are nice to me it is because they pity me. I fear the poison that is my anxiety will spread to the boys, either because they will be mentally ill as well or because I am unfit to do them justice. I feel like a failure because most Moms I know aren’t weak enough to need a pill to function. I live a privileged life and instead of being grateful for my luck I can barely make it through the day in one piece.

Escaping into a book equals escaping from myself for a time. It is better than therapy or drugs. I can shed all I hate about myself and just be. Anyone with an anxiety disorder will tell you that it makes you feel with your whole body. It also makes it easy to put yourself in someone else’s shoes emotionally. In everyday life you cannot simply watch the News without crying five times. Reading, on the other hand, provides a way to slip out of your life and into another with no effort. You can feel all your terrible, messy, overwhelming feelings and no one will judge you. When you are reading all self consciousness falls away and it is simply relief.

Jeeze, got a little heavy there for a minute. So, yeah…I dig reading.

Every morning T climbs into bed on Z’s side and they cuddle for a bit before heading to the shower. I sleep through most of this because as I said I’m not a morning gal. I was miserably tired this morning, though not regretful about my evening. While still half asleep I heard Z say, “Did you have beer or wine?” to T. Suddenly I was quite fully awake. What the fuck was going on? T replied, “Just a sip.” Which didn’t answer Z’s question but was equally alarming. For the love of God, T is 3.

T squirmed around and pulled out something from underneath him, “I have bear shirt!” he said triumphantly as he waved the red tee around. “But no lion?” Z asked. “Nope, he’s in my room.”

Oh, “bear or lion”. Oh, “just a sec.” Oh, questions about the shit he sleeps with. Yup. That makes a lot more sense.


My handsome man ready for work. I want to be crystal clear–escaping the world means escaping myself. Not this guy. Not my boys. They are they good stuff.

basket hat

Don’t let the look on his face fool you. He is just being very serious about needing a hat. Even a fruit basket will do.

beautiful eyes

His eyes slay me. A little stoned post nursing. Dude is getting over a nasty cold, he’s teething, and he just spiked a fever.

Dinner Party

Z and I are not into competition style TV shows unless they are on The Food Network, and even then we watch only a handful. Listen, I’ve got nothing against crap TV. In fact, I adore crap TV, but the competition stuff just doesn’t tend to speak to us. The major exception to that rule is Worst Cooks In America. We’ve watched every season. When the ads start playing for the new shows we get downright giddy. We love it because the contestants are supportive of each other, they are genuinely trying to learn a new skill, and there is no meanness. Most importantly it is fucking hilarious. It would be like me doing a computer programing contest. The fish out of water thing is a lot of fun.

The show premiered Sunday and Z missed the first 15 minutes. I was DRVing it, but he told me it was so close to the beginning that I didn’t have to rewind for him. “Oh, you really want to see all of it.” I told him. I’d already laughed so hard I cried twice. And when he saw one of the contestants dry heaving after he tasted his own cooking he thought it was hilarious as well. But he agreed that the best part was the feisty lady who was vocally in lust with Bobby Flay. She had on nails with a capital N. By the time she was done cooking one of her thumb nails was mysteriously missing. Watching it the second time was just as good as the first, better actually because I had someone reduced to tears of hysteria right next to me. “How does that even happen?” I asked as I was gasping for air. Thankfully, she wasn’t eliminated at the end of the episode. She is awesome and I really hope she does learn to cook. I’ll tell you what, every finale we’ve watched in the series has had us crying sincere tears as we cheer on both contestants who have learned so much in a few weeks. And the episode where the final four cook for their families? Forget about it. Z and I weep for the whole hour.

For a few years I baked professionally. I’m not a chef, but I do know my way around a kitchen. Anyone could learn what I know how to do. Baking and cooking are no great mysteries, to be competent you don’t need innate talent or artistic ability, you need to take the time to learn. So it isn’t like I have this great secret talent, I’ve just acquired a skill that a monkey could master given enough time. I cook for our family because I love to cook.

On Sunday I made ravioli for our dinner last night so I only had to worry about making the sauce and dessert yesterday. I was in good shape before our guests arrived. I even remembered to grate some parmesan. I have an awesome box grater that was made by microplane. Awesome, but kind of dangerous. It is sharp as fucking hell. I was using the medium holes to make delightful little curls of parm when I pulled my hand back fast and said, “Oh shit, shit, shit, shit,” Z grabbed my hand. “Are you ok? Let me see.” “I fucking cut my nail. Shit, I can’t find the piece of nail, Z. What do I do?” Z thought about it for half a sec. “Forget about it. No one is ever going to know.” After sifting through the cheese looking for the piece I considered throwing it out…and then I just put the bowl on the table. After a moment Z said, “You realize you are that woman on Worst Cooks In America right?” And again I laughed so hard I cried.

thumb nail

I mean, come on. It was my thumb just like the TV lady. Although it was only a small piece of nail in my case. I keep mine trimmed super short. The other difference is Bobby Flay doesn’t interest me at all.

So what is the moral to this rambly lesson? If you come to dinner at our house I will make you decent food usually made from scratch with love. But be warned, we are gross enough to also serve you body parts. I mean, this was the first time I knowingly served part of my body along with the food, but what if fingernails are gateway drugs to cannibalism? This could be a very slippery slope for us. One minute I’m accidently including nails, the next I’m feeding Ray Liotta his own brain in my dinning room. Clearly we are not to be trusted.

 Even worse than the body parts is  my social ineptitude. I don’t know how I ever make friends I am so painfully awkward in social situations. Just thinking about my inability to act like a normal human last night makes me way more embarrassed than the nail situation. It’s best for everyone if I stay in the kitchen as much as possible. Even if it does mean eating body parts.

breakfast pie

The best part of dinner parties? Key Lime Pie and fresh whipped cream for breakfast. I’m in love with this pie. It’s the 3rd time I’ve made it this month. And yes, I’m back to cowardly Instagram.

waiting for pie

Someone was having a little trouble waiting for his bite of pie.