This weekend was instructive on several levels when it came to nourishing my children.

First: Our parents were right when they said we shouldn’t run around while eating.

Markus was snacking on cashews when he and Rafael started horsing around, climbing up Mt. Mommy. (That’s what we call it when I’m sitting on the floor in front of the sofa and they use me as a stepladder to climb onto the sofa, then climb down again and repeat. And repeat. And repeat. And … well, you get the idea.)

Anyhow, he was sort of hanging on me when Rafael took a flying leap and landed on me, knocking the wind out of my sails. I “ooof”ed rather loudly, startling Markus, who promptly fell on the hardwood floor, thunking his head loudly.

All was silent for a fraction of a millisecond and then Markus started crying. And then choking. A piece of nut had gone down the wrong pipe. Got him stood up, then he puked all over the floor.

Rafael stood a couple feet away, stunned into silence. Then: “I’m sorry to Mommy. I’m sorry to Markus.”

He knew he’d caused all this to happen, but wasn’t really quite sure how. But he knew, somehow, that an apology was in order.

Everything turned out fine, and Markus was running around about a minute later, but I’d taken what was left of the nuts in his bowl and put them away. OK, there were only three or four, so I ate them. But that’s putting them away, no?

Second: Milk tastes the same no matter what Cars movie-themed sippy cup you use and don’t let your son tell you otherwise.

Rafael’s been pulling power trips lately, demanding what he wants. “I want everything that I want,” he’s explained to me, much to my chagrin. I’ve been trying to explain that that’s all very well and nice, but that’s not how life works and he’d better realize that soon.

Anyway, as the smitchiks sat down to their dinner of grilled cheese sandwiches, Rafael asked for milk. I realized I’d left Markus’ sippy cup of milk in the kitchen and grabbed another one (Markus’ was orange, so I grabbed a green one so I could easily tell them apart) and filled it with milk for Rafael.

As I handed each his cup, the fireworks started. Rafael didn’t want the green cup. He hated the green cup. He wanted the orange cup. Red is his favorite color (he’s been telling me this a lot lately) and orange is close to red. I would have taken advantage of the teaching moment, but it was late in the day and I was getting to be about as cranky as Rafael was by this point.

I told him to just drink up, but he said Markus wanted the green cup, and I noticed Markus was indeed eying it. What the heck, I figured. If Markus doesn’t care, I’m just too tired. Markus grabbed at the green cup and happily forsook the orange cup. Ah, all was going fine. Just another hour and I could get these two to bed and the house would be quiet and I could do some work on the computer.

Hah!

Rafael took one draught and immediately declared he didn’t like the orange cup, he wanted the green cup. Markus was happily guzzling from the green cup. I suspect some of this had to do with the fact that the orange cup had been sitting out for 10 minutes or so, while the milk in the green cup was fresh out of the fridge, so it wasn’t cold enough for my little prince.

I refused to even consider another exchange of cups and let Rafael know in no uncertain terms.

Cue tears. And pouting. And screaming. And tears. And cries of “Give me hugs! Give me love!” through a veil of tears.

I gave him hugs; I gave him love. And I refused to give in. The proverbial foot was down and was stuck in cement and not moving.

Finally, he tried drinking it again and asked for some colder milk because by now it was approaching room temperature. This was relatively reasonable, and seeing as we had another orange cup exactly the same as the one he was now drinking from, I did pour him a new cup of milk and put the first cup in the fridge so as not to waste it. I informed him he was getting the milk in another orange cup and I didn’t want to hear anything about it. He noticed, I think, that there was another green cup, also empty, but wisely chose not to say anything.

Shortly thereafter, the milk was drunk, the little guys went to sleep and I slid, relaxed at last, into a nice, warm bath.

Sigh.

Third: I actually uttered the words “ice cream is not for breakfast” in response to my son’s declaration that he wanted vanilla ice cream for breakfast. He’d been promised ice cream the day before, but fell asleep without it.

As the words came out of my mouth, I realized how wise my fellow blogger, Katie Ryan O’Connor, was when she came up with the name of this blog.

Score: Puke 1, Mom 1, This Blog 1.

About as fair a tally as I’m likely to see.

Photo courtesy of Stock Exchange.