MyThreeDaughters

The other night at dinner, the two bigs were having their favorite dinner discussion: Are we having dessert after dinner?
What would it be?
Have I eaten enough to get dessert?
How much would I have to eat to get dessert? Two more bites?
Mind you, this repetitive verbal barrage usually begins after I’ve sat down and had two bites and while my wife has just scooched in her chair after pouring three different drinks (soy milk for one, two percent for another, whole milk for another) and cutting pasta into precisely the perfect length noodle for each of them.
So I had to go Dad:
<i>From now on, there’s a new rule around here at dinner: No talking about dessert until dinner is over!</i>
<i>You already made that rule,</i> Fontaine said.
Apparently, I had already gone Dad. A couple of weeks ago. And forgot. Apparently what I’ve gone is straight through the tunnel to Crazyville.
But the beauty of being Dad is, never admit you’ve gone crazy. So I said:
<i>Well, now we’re all going to start following the rule</i>.
Oh, just take your dessert. Eat some cookies. But no, there’s no whipped cream. We’re cracking down around here.