Tuesday 25th October 2011
My plan was to get my son, Zeph, to help me make some snacks for him to take to school. He had shown some kind of interest in the idea when I mentioned it on the walk back from school.
“Come & give us a hand Zeph.” I called from the kitchen.
“I’m just having a jib.” He called back from under his duvet.
“Come on, you said you’d give me a hand to make these.” I reminded him.
“But I’m having a jib.” He repeated.
If ‘jibbing‘ was an Olympic event, my boy would win bronze, silver & gold.
“Come & weigh this bit out & you can go back to what you’re doing.” I tried to entice.
He reluctantly came out to the kitchen.
“What you being all stroppy about?” I asked. “I thought you wanted to make these.”
“Dad, I don’t even like flapjacks!” He informed me rather bluntly.
“Oh, ok.” I replied knowing that these things happen, often. “I guess you’ll just have to get to like ’em.”
I put one in his breakfast box the next morning for his mid-morning snack. The box came back empty but for the cling film the flapjack was wrapped in.