Me: “OK, kids, we’re trying a new restaurant tonight.”
Little Miss Thing, age 7: “I don’t like it.”
Me: “You don’t even know which restaurant yet.”
LMT: “I already know enough restaurants.”
Me: “Give it a chance. It’s an old school restaurant with solid comfort food. Look, here, we’re pulling up. Isn’t that a cool looking older building?”
Danger Monkey, age 10: “It would look a lot cooler if they had a Medieval Ballista mounted to the roof.”
Me: (long pause)
Me: “I can’t argue with that.”
I can’t decide which is my favorite part of breakfast at a small country diner – the rustic home fries, the unbelievably fluffy pancakes, or the big table of racist old dudes loudly discussing how brilliant Trump is.
Me, via text: “Hey, make sure you eat dinner before I pick you up.”
My Oldest, age 13: “We don’t have what you would call appropriate dinner eating food.”
Me: “Really? No food?”
Oldest: “Well like cereal or candy.”
Me: (pause)
Oldest: “OK, we have leftover pot roast. But seriously, nothing appropriate to eat.”
Me: “So you want to go out to eat.”
Oldest: “Best. Dad. Ever.”
Very Vocal Viking 