Hot Chocolate

Jack has quite the little temper and often accompanies that anger with threats.

As he is still three, he hasn’t quite figured out which threats effect the person he is aiming the threats toward, and which threats only do a disservice to himself.

While at a coffee shop on the way to my Uncle  John’s from the London airport, I told the boys that I would order them a hot chocolate.  Jack was in the stroller and wanted to get out, but I wanted him to stay in because he we were in a very busy train station.  I had both boys myself as Eric and my cousin Chloe were off buying cell phones for us.

Jack: If you say I can’t get out, then I won’t want hot chocolate.

Mama:  Oh, what would you like instead?

Jack: I’ll drink nothing!

Mama:  Are you sure?  I worry that you will be sad when the drinks come, and everyone will have a coffee or hot chocolate and you won’t.  (stubborn look from Jack) It is important to tell me now because we won’t have time to go back order one for you after the lady makes the drinks for us. 

I felt fairly confident that Jack would be the sad one when the drinks came.  I asked him several times if he was sure and that we wouldn’t have time to order one for him if he changed his mind after everyone had their drinks.  No luck, I couldn’t convince him.

While we waited for our drinks, I noticed an old woman in a motorized wheelchair outside the shop, obviously wanting to get in, but unable to open the door for herself.  I assumed that someone in the crowded street or someone  in the shop that was next to the doors would open it for her.   But no one did, so I walked over and opened them.  It was a little funny situation as both doors needed to be opened at the same time for her chair to fit, and I had to stretch out and hold one with my feet, and the other with my arms, while the lady ducked her head to avoid bumping into me.  “London Bridge is falling down…” I sang. We both laughed.

“Bless you! Bless you!,” she says in a Polish accent, smiling and nodding her head.  I smiled and said, “You need some coffee too?”    She shrugged,  rubbed her arms with the opposite hands and said, “I need come in for warm.” 

Owen’s drink came up just then and I returned to the counter and handed it to him.  As soon as Jack saw it he immediately began crying.  Of course, now he wanted hot chocolate.

Mama: Oh  Jack I’m sorry baby.  You said you didn’t want any so I didn’t order any for you.  (Louder crying  from Jack)  I trust that what you say is true.  When you say, ‘I don’t want hot chocolate.’ I believe you.  I am sorry, it is too late or order something now.

The whole time I am talking, Jack is crying and blubbering, “I want hot chocolate.” and the old Polish lady is pleading with me (with sadder eyes than Jack) , “Please buy for little boy, please buy for little boy.”

I glanced over at the line which had grown across the entire store by then.  There was no time to reorder.  I look at my crying Jack, and at the old woman who is also still pleading, and she begins to cry!  I am not kidding, the lady is actually crying, tears welling, then spilling over her eyes!  “I pay. I pay,” she pleads. “For little boy, I pay.”

I feel trapped.  I have a three-year-old who has spent the entire night on a cramped airplane and had only about three hours of sleep.  He is hungry and thirsty, and is beyond comprehending much.  I just want to give him the hot chocolate, and make him happy.  I have a sweet crying old Polish lady who, no doubt, thinks I am a cruel mother, and I have have this unexplainable need to give in to her in her old age  (like I represent the heart of the next generation in this world??!)  But there is the fact I have a small amount of time, and there is a long coffee line, which makes reordering impossible.  And then, I have what is the “right” thing to do which weighs on me the most: to have Jack realize the very natural consequence of his actions – he cannot have hot chocolate if  he chooses to not order any when the chance occurs.  Crying shouldn’t change that.

I am trapped in all my thoughts since I have to wait for Eric’s drink and for my own. The old lady moves toward the line, “I pay. I pay for little boy.”  I am not even sure she can afford it.  I look up at the barista who glances at the line,  smiles and says, “I can make him one, and ring you up on the other register.”

I sigh and agree to the barista’s proposition, and know that this will prolong Jack’s idea that the world should cater to his every whim.  But maybe I scored a point with the polish elderly?   Sometimes it seems better to resign to the idea that you are going to have to fight three battles later, in order to put off a battle now.  I think this was one of those times.