Breakfast rations are dwindling, and I fear I’ll have to break out the dreaded grits by week’s end. My little cereal killer continues to ravage the pantry, despite my continued insistence that the individual servings are not a sustainable resource. To get more would entail shopping.

I can’t shop while they’re in school, because I have to work. And I can’t shop at night, because I’d rather feed them lint than take them into a grocery store by myself. I’d be outnumbered, and my zone defense is not that good. Hence, the cereal must last.

This was supposed to be Mini-Wheats Day. Part of my wife’s pre-departure counseling was: Never give either son a chance to claim that the other is receiving preferential treatment. Anything other than strict adherence to these guidelines may result in sheer chaos and a complete breakdown of familial infrastructure.

To that end, they are to be given the same thing during one sitting -- the same-sized portions of the same type of product (made by the same brand), with the same size, shape and color of auxiliary utensils. As is a servant’s tradition, I am to eat in separate quarters at a separate time.

Quite simply, one brother may not have milk in a blue cup if the other has juice in a red cup, or if Daddy has amber liquid in a clear bottle.

And so, I announced to both of them that they would be having Frosted Mini-Wheats, which was met with much rejoicing. Until Thing 2 tried some.

“Daddy, I don’t yike dese.”

“That’s all we have, Sugarbear.”

“I saw Yucky Charms in dere.” He pointed an accusing finger at the pantry door.

Busted, and sensing an addiction-fueled tantrum of monumental proportions, I lapsed into bargaining mode. Some people consider bargaining to be a parent’s biggest mistake, but it can be a necessity when time doesn’t allow for kicking and screaming. And I didn’t have time to engage in either of those activities.

There are people who will tell you it’s a sign of weakness to let a crying child have his way. They will insist that a screaming, pitching, reeling toddler can be brought into instant submission with a quick swat. They will swear that every time a child wins, an angel loses its wings.

There’s a word for people who tell you these things: childless.

The unfortunate truth is that sometimes parenting requires a firm stance, sometimes it requires skilled negotiation, and sometimes it requires a white flag. The critical element to this equation is knowing how to choose one’s battles. With a scant 30 minutes until work was going to start, including 25 minutes of driving and drop-offs, I chose wisely.

When I make such a choice, all I have to think about is the human skeleton. Specifically, joints. Joints make it possible for the human body to bend. Bending makes it possible for the human body to sit. Sitting is the only legal way to transport a human toddler’s body. But when Sugarbear has a tantrum, none of this is possible.

He has this freaky ability to simultaneously and irrevocably lock every joint in his body. Once they are locked, nothing and no one can bend them again until Sugarbear is good and ready for them to bend. His body goes completely rigid -- stiff and straight as a two-by-four.

Have you ever tried to strap a two-by-four into a booster seat in the back of a car? I have, and it’s a painful memory. But it’s a memory that came back to me while I was watching a tantrum about to unfold, at the same time I was watching the clock. Snap decision, the kid wins this time, and everybody’s happy. There’s no rule saying I can’t punish him later -- that’s what bedtime ghost stories are for, isn’t it? Delayed punitive measures?

Decision made, addiction fed, and chaos abated, I turned to his brother to make sure I hadn’t just invited further trouble by offering them different menus.

“Doodlebug, I’m giving your brother tomorrow’s Junkie Charms, but there’s still a cup left for you. He’ll have to eat something else tomorrow -- possibly lint.”

“Junkie Charms? Don’t you mean Lucky Charms, Dad?”

“No, son. No, I don’t.”

“But what does ‘Junkie’ mean?”

“Ask your mother.”

“But she’s not here! Did you forget she’s in Peoria?”

“No, son. No, I didn’t....”

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