Henry worked a little math magic while we were visiting my parents.
Henry happens to know that a certain someone, we'll call him "Grandpa", hordes his beloved root beer popsicles so that he can share them with his grandson whenever said grandson comes to visit. This may not seem like a big deal, but it requires the consumption of blue raspberry and the ever-unappetizing banana flavors of popsicle, because you can't just buy root beer flavor alone, you have to buy the mixed bag. Life always requires a sacrifice of some sort, you know?
Anyway, Henry's Grammy made him spaghetti and meatballs for our first night back in Boston. Henry ate one or two bites, squirmed a lot, ate another one or two bites, then finally made a break for the freezer, which he tore open, quickly locating the bag of popsicles. We told him he couldn't have any until he ate more of his dinner, so he reluctantly returned to his chair where he sat sort of still but not really, all the while looking longingly at the freezer. After about a half an hour of trying to get him to eat, my mom told him he could have a popsicle if he had three more bites of meatball. She held up three fingers, which Henry studied very closely. Finally he got off his chair, pushed down two of her fingers (and her thumb, which was slightly sticking out; he didn't want there to be any confusion), and said "Henry have a popsicle after one more bite of meatball."
We agreed to his terms. What choice did we have? He used math against us!