A normal dinner. Meat and beans, both baked and green varieties. We were seated around our living room coffee table, the setting for most of our meals. We have an actual dining table, but it’s seldom used except when company comes over, or in the morning when Buzz eats his breakfast.
Per usual, we were fighting with Jedi over a bite of greens. It takes 15 minutes to get one morsel in his mouth, and then he does the scrunchy yuck face until he manages to painfully coerce it through his gullet. I’ve never been extremely fond of vegetables myself, either, so I understand. I do. However, it’s not like I’m making him eat an entire plate of brussel sprouts. We’re lenient here, a couple mouthfuls and we consider the basic food groups sufficiently covered.
Perhaps as another means of stalling, having already tried the “I have to go to the bathroom!” route, he mentioned out of nowhere, “I wish every fork was a spork.”
You have to appreciate the boy’s creative tenacity.
Which, then led to a rash of spork-sational questions.
“Have I ever used a spork?”
“Do we have any sporks?”
“Does the store sell sporks? Because I think we should buy some.”
If it means you’ll eat your vegetables with a little more ease, or at all, I’ll agree to buy you a spork truckload.