I knew this day would come. After years of proclaiming that my future children would *never* eat fast food, or at least until they could go out and buy it for themselves, followed by a pregnancy that tempered my resolution to the more *realistic* notion that my children would be at least 5 years old when we first introduced them to a fast food restaurant, to the inevitable first visit to McDonald's when my daughter was about 10 months old and I peeled the breading from the McNuggets and chose apple slices and milk over french fries and pop...to now. To this conversation:
E: Mama, I want a booger.
M: You want a booger?
E: A buuuuurrrrr-ger.
M: Oh. Okay, maybe I'll make burgers tonight.
E: No, I want one from the rest-a-ront.
M: Well, maybe we'll go to a restaurant for a burger then.
E: I want milk with my booger.
M: I'm sure the restaurant will have milk.
E: I want milk from the bottle that has Ronald McDonald on it with my booger. At the rest-a-ront.
Of course, in my endless quest to make myself feel better for my transgressions, I take foolish pride in the fact that she doesn't know that it's called "McDonald's", and she didn't mention fries. She also didn't get to go, so I can tell myself that I'm not a slave to my toddler's demands.