Lately Ian’s first response to anything—bath, bed, green beans, global warming—is to whine. It’s like watching The View or listening to NPR.
Depending upon the perceived level of annoyance and/or inconvenience, his whining covers the spectrum from a dejected ‘Aww!’ to a piercing, face-crumpling, foot-stomping cry that sometimes makes me thankful we don’t own a gun.
As a father, I’m supposed to be patient and understanding. I’m expected to remember that he’s only four or that he’s missed his nap or had a long day. An expanding list of variables meant to temper my response to his behavior.
Which is a wonderful theory, and has helped me learn (some) patience. But sometimes the kid is wrong.
Last week Ian was in the car, holding a balloon and complaining that it was round. Or something. (When I get a flu shot I don’t notice what’s in the syringe.) He was whining, clutching the balloon and making that awful, squeaky sound.
Kelly said from the side of her mouth, ‘Wouldn’t it be great if the balloon popped?’