“If you’re not going to eat your cereal, let’s go upstairs and get changed,” I said. Conor didn’t like that. “I am going to eat it. Just not right now.”

“You slept late. There’s no time for later,” I replied sternly. The line in the sand had been drawn. The duel was on. This is where we cue the suspense music.

Conor called my bluff. I turned and walked upstairs to get dressed. He hates being alone. And he left the table to join me. At a distance.

I closed the gap between us and extricated his pajama top. And replaced it with thermals. It’s still cold outside. Even colder than his demeaner towards me right now.

The omnivore was ready to return to the feeding trough after he got dressed so we headed back to the kitchen. He wanted to sit on my lap.

“No time for that now. It’s time to make lunch.” The Mexican stand-off resumed. Conor whimpered, “I’m not eating unless I can sit on your lap.”

“You’d better eat now because when this hotdog is safe in its bun, we’re off to school. Breakfast or no breakfast.”

“Mom gives me 6 chances,” he dared to say. I volleyed, “I’m giving you two. And one chance you already passed up. Time to decide.”

He paused too long. I wrapped him in his coat like a burrito and guided him out the door. “Wait, I haven’t eaten yet,” he pleaded.

He cried louder than John Lennon was singing “Hey Jude” on the radio as we rolled down the street. I guess it’s just one of those teaching moments.

I dropped him off and came back home. All that teaching has made me hungry. Time to eat his breakfast.

Tags: breakfast, discipline, school, dads, sons