He dipped his finger in the fry sauce, you know the gourmet mixture of ketchup and mayo, and declared that it was delicious and he did like it. He even dipped his fry in the sauce and took a bite. Welcome to the big time folks, dinner with kids, showing seven nights a week everywhere. The kid, he tried a sauce, a wet, non-solid substance, a miracle, I’m sure.
Then he boasted in trying his dinner, I tried it, I did.
The boy, he tried the fries and ignored the fish, but you know, good job for effort.
Dinner time around here is a struggle. I’m nearly certain kids were only meant to eat two meals a day. Nearly certain.
The other day, after refusing whatever I was serving, something tasty and made from scratch, he gave wild praises about, wait for it, buttered toast. The best butter toast ever, he said.
Huh. Perhaps, I’ve been trying to hard.
Well, today, when the fry sauce was so wildly exclaimed, that’s when it hit me.
I’m going to make a list of all the dinners, they don’t want to eat for the next fourteen+ years and when they go off to college and tell me how awful the food is, I’m going to send it to them. That’s what I’m going to do.
That will teach ‘em.
And one day, they’ll beg me, they’ll plead for a delicious home cooked meal.
One day, friends, one day.