Complaining as an Art Form
The other night my youngest daughter, Amanda (who will turn six in a few weeks) discovered that I had committed a most insidious and vile act: I had brought home a pizza from Papa Murphy's that was contaminated with both mushrooms and tomatoes! The poor little thing was completely distraught. She cried and wailed. She explained to me repeatedly that she hates mushrooms and that she hates tomatoes and that she was really expecting a plain pizza with pepperoni, not sausage like this one had. (In her defense, she was tired and getting over a cold. She is prone to emotional outbursts, but this was quite a bit more severe than usual.)
This went on for about 20 minutes until her hunger started to get the better of her upsetness. She was still whimpering and muttering as she finally sat down at table and started to eat. During her travailing the rest of the family had started eating. There were only two pieces left besides the one that had been sitting on Amanda's plate.
As she ate, Amanda continued to mutter and occasionally complain as she removed bits of mushroom and tomato. Then, without the slightest pause, she cried, "Hey! You didn't save me any more pizza!" and started to cry about the fact that there was only one extra piece for her besides the one on her plate.
Some nights, you just gotta complain.