Don’t Tell Me

My family has this weekly tradition.  We go out to our local Noah’s Bagels for lunch.  As Maddie’s grown older, she’s able to share grown-up food with us.  So we’ve been cutting off slices of the dog-part of my bagel dog, and feeding them to her.  Nowadays, she pretty much eats the whole wiener, leaving nothing but soggy bagel for me.

At home, she eats these tasty microwaveable mini corndogs.  Since I wanted my own bagel dog this week, we microwaved some corndogs, and brought them with us to Noah’s.  We offered Maddie her corndogs as I garnished my bagel dog.  But Maddie wasn’t having any of that.  She knows,

When we’re at Noah’s, Maddie gets steamy hot bagel dog wiener.

That’s the routine.  That’s the rule.

Fine, fine, fine.  I cut off slices of my bagel dog for her.  She grabs a spoon, but I correct her, and try to place a fork in her hand, so she can stab the slices and feed herself.  She wasn’t going to have any of that either.  Maddie insisted on using a spoon, and trying to stab the slices with that, as if it were a fork.  I tried to show her how to scoop up with slices with the spoon, but that wasn’t what she wanted to do!

So, Maddie’s Mom and I sit there watching our pride-and-joy ignore the food we brought for her, and trying to stab slices of my hotdog with a spoon (sometimes successfully).  I say to Maddie’s Mom with a little exasperation, “I tell you,” but then words fail me.

Without skipping a beat, she looks at me and deadpans, “It’s hard having kids?  You don’t have to tell me that.”