Ugh. I am so tired, and there are dishes to do.
The Big M is on another business trip and our fridge is deliberately (mostly) empty in anticipation of a trip to Dallas this weekend, so I decided to drive through for supper. All of you with kids probably are familiar with the arguments that go on between them when it comes to choosing a place. And, unlike The Big M, Mom is not flexible enough to go to different restaurants for everyone. It’s one and done.
So I got smart. Rather than let them rehash The Battle of McDonalds vs. Chick-Fil-A, this time I had The Boy and The Girl tell me their preferred choices, wrote them on slips of paper, and dropped them in a lunchbox for one to be chosen at random.
Forgetting, of course, that it is “unfair” to let only one of them choose.
I let The Girl choose, mostly because The Boy, being older, is better able to withstand the devastation of not being the one to draw a slip. At least, he’s quieter about it. She drew KFC.
“I don’t want KFC!!” she wailed.
“But you’re the one who suggested it,” I replied, eyes narrowing.
“Fine. Pick another one.”
“Yay!” cheers The Boy. My eyes narrow further. He’s skirting dangerously close to taunting.
We still had three slips left. They both had volunteered two restaurants. Little does The Girl realize that with her rejection of KFC she has just given her brother a 67% chance of winning one of his choices. She draws P. Terry’s, a local hamburger joint. His choice.
“Yay!” cheers The Boy again. I do a silent cheer inside. I didn’t want chicken.
The Girl’s face screws up. She’s preparing for Tantrum #417 of the afternoon. At least it seems like that many.
“No tantrums,” I say firmly. “You agreed to draw a restaurant and you drew P. Terry’s.”
She abides. Smiles tentatively, bravely. She will martyr this one out.
Thank God. I could use the break.
I go to get my purse. I’m dawdling a bit, and when I come out, I find a quivering five-year-old mass has followed me into my room, wrapped herself in her favorite blanket, and seated herself in my chair. Her eyes are red-rimmed, and tears are pouring down her cheeks as she sobs gently, yet passionately. At least she’s quiet.
“What?” I say.
“I … (gasp) … don’t … (sob) … feel … (raggedy inhalation) … like french fries (wail)!!” (Dramatic collapse in the chair.)
Seriously? A five-year-old doesn’t “feel like french fries”? Is that possible? I shake my head in disbelief and put a hand on her forehead. It’s sweaty (it takes effort to be a Drama Queen) but not feverish.
“Go get in the car.”
I’ll bet all of you can guess how this story ends. We got home with the food, sat down to eat, and The Girl asked if she could have some of my fries.
Thank God for bedtime.
Categories: The Kids
Tags: P. Terry's