Three and a half is such a special age.

Saturday morning, Nate requested oatmeal for breakfast. I was surprised; he’s had waffles every morning for months. But okay, we have oatmeal. I grabbed a packet at random and put it in the microwave.

While it was cooling, I poured a bowl of cereal for myself. Then I called him in from the family room and we sat down to eat.

He hemmed and hawed about how it was too hot, although he hadn’t actually touched it yet. Finally he took a bite, and announced, “I don’t like this oatmeal. I want waffles.” I realized that I had selected an unflavored packet from the variety pack. I offered to put some maple syrup in his oatmeal, but he held firm: “Maple syrup just reminds me of waffles even more.” Okay, kiddo, you got it, but you’re going to have to wait until I finish my breakfast before I make you another breakfast.

Well, he really didn’t like that, but I wasn’t going to let my cereal get soggy.

So I made him a waffle and he ate it up, and that was fine. I threw the oatmeal away.

Sunday morning. Again: “I want oatmeal. Flavored oatmeal this time, not the way you made it the day before this day.” (“Yesterday” still means “any day in the past.” We’re working on it.) I carefully selected Apple Cinnamon and cooked it up. When it was cool enough to eat, I presented it to him, and he regarded it suspiciously. “What flavor is it?”

“Apple Cinnamon.”

“I don’t like cinnamon.”

“Actually, you do. This is your favorite flavor. Just taste it.”

Wonder of wonders, he tasted it. “You’re right! I do like it.” Praise Elath, he’s eating it.

After three bites, he held a spoonful up and inspected it closely. “Daddy? What does cinnamon look like?”

This is the point where I should have said, “You can’t see it, you can just taste it.” But no! Here’s a question I can answer. I was all excited to expand his horizons. I went to the pantry and grabbed my can of cinnamon. The can has my initials on it in Sharpie, because I bought it when I moved into my college apartment, probably sixteen years ago. It’s still 90 percent full. Obviously I’m not much for baking. But anyway, I brought it in and popped the lid. “See? Doesn’t it smell good?”

“It smells wonderful. But it looks like something that came out of my butt. I don’t want this oatmeal any more. I want waffles.”