Alright, I admit it. I take my kids go to McDonald’s. They worship at the gates of the Golden Arches, imbibe in a Happy Meal or two and play with the insanely cheap, plastic, light up toys. The nuggets that claim to be chicken and the fries that soak in grease do, in fact, enter the small and sacred temples of my offsprings’ bodies. A trip to Mickey Dees is an event they look forward to and I dare confess to you here that I indulge them in the pleasure roughly once a week. Usually after swim classes at the Y on Fridays.
But, last week, I called an audible on the whole swim class idea for the foreseeable future and we became “Y-Pool Drop-Outs” (a story for another day). And while they didn’t much miss the swim classes, they were pretty bummed that there would be no processed lunch served on plastic trays.
So, on Saturday, as lunchtime rolled around, Big Brother decided we owed him one. And, before we could really think about it, Husband said ok.
Woooooohoooooooo! Lunch out! With Dad! McDonald’s!
Clearly delighted, Big Brother bolted for his coat. Then, our reality set in. We’d just had a half cord of wood delivered and dropped in our driveway leaving just one car accessible until we stacked it all behind the house. And, Bernie had a vet appointment at noon. And the vet is no where near a McDonald’s. And, it just wasn’t going to work.
“Sorry, bud. Lunch at home, I guess.”
So, as I clipped the leash on Bernie and said I’d be back soon, I could see the disappointment in Big Brother’s eyes. Poor kid. It may be mystery meat and HandiWipes to us but to him it was a special opportunity to feel like a big kid with his own special meal, a new toy for dessert and (even better) a seat next to Dad.
I thought about Big Brother when I was at the vet and knew, of course, that he’d be fine. A peanut butter and jelly sandwich, maybe an episode of the Berenstain Bears on Dad’s lap. I knew Husband would turn it around with his usual grace and the special attention that only Dad can give. I knew Husband was good.
But, when I came home and saw the remnants of Big Brother’s lunch, I realized that Husband is more than good. Sometimes, in fact, he’s great.
Confessions of a Serial Swooper 
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