PROHIBITION

My son wakes up most mornings in need of an exorcism. A few days ago he thumped down from his top bunk and stomped into my room, where he stood by the bed with a stiffly-peaked head of tangles and actually growled the following: MOM YOU NEED TO MAKE PANCAKES. NOW. His eyes may or may not have been glowing red. I declined to check as I made my way down to gather the pancake ingredients quickly— with as little extraneous movement as possible, since his vision’s based on movement.

He followed me down the stairs, muttering and throwing things, and then progressed to loudly swearing off everything he has ever loved while I cowered in the kitchen looking for measuring cups.

I texted my husband to report that our son was having another gruesome wake-up and his response was immediate: “just give him a square of chocolate. He’ll come right around.”

I ran to the s’more stash and started digging, but before I could get a new Hershey bar open