"I had chocolate!" Ali gleefully announces the minute I walk in the door. As if I couldn't see it, smeared across his face and shirt, his hands still hold the sweet smell.
Later, he's cuddling with me on the couch as I think about our evening meal. "What's that thing I make for you to eat?" I ask him.
"Chocolate!" he replies.
"No, dinner." I say wryly. "Does Mommy give you chocolate?"
"No, baba gives me chocolate."
Too true. This has become the bribe of choice. Last Friday, H headed off the coming wails of "I wanna go home," with a promise of chocolate. This boy is much like his father. Oh, I like chocolate, but I eat it in bits and drabbles, afraid of triggering a migraine. H. makes a meal of it with a loaf of bread.
Leila wakes up sad from her nap, "I didn't get any chocolate." She's often sad these days. Denying her a favorite t.v. show doesn't lead to anger but to mournful wailing with real sorrow behind it. Maybe more chocolate will help.