Lives for Snack Time

Of all the little things that Gamble does to get on our nerves daily (he is four, and that seems to be his job), perhaps the worst for me is the holy time of eight o'clock, when Gamble receives his much desired snack.

I don't know exactly how it happened. Snack time has become the meal between dinner and bedtime, though much closer to bedtime than dinner, and it's become an entitlement. Possibly because he was such a good boy for so long that it was hard to refuse a healthy request later at night. Perhaps because he's four years old and his 2T pants still look gangsta hanging off his waist.

Note, just because we call it snack time, doesn't mean that it's junk food. Most nights he settles for a yogurt or a half a can of pears, but there are rare nights when he receives a treat during the day and knows that if he's good all day, he'll get to have something really yummy before brushing his teeth and heading off to read in bed.

But he nags. As soon as he's done with dinner (could be as early as 5:30), he's asking whether it's eight o'clock. He can tell some times, and if he really thinks about it, and it's on a common half hour, he won't need to ask. But he doesn't have a concept like "how much longer" in his mind, so he asks.

And asks.

And asks. Sometimes as frequently as every five minutes. The other night, he was warned that he would be told when snack time was and continued to question so persistently that his special snack was taken away in favor of something else (he was asked to choose a different snack).

I think the Taco Bell commercials are affecting him.