I made tomato soup for dinner earlier this week. While it was cooking, Claire asked me to lift her up so she could see what was in the pot.
"What is it?"
"Tomato soup."
"I thought it was spaghetti! Why aren't you making spaghetti! You tricked me!" She ran away in a rage.
"If it smells like spaghetti, maybe you'll like it," I called after her.
Later the kids and I sat down to eat. (Jake was still at work.) Before the kids could get too far in their verbal abuse of the soup I said, "I don't want to hear anything except 'Thank you, Mom, for working so hard for us every day and making us dinner.'"
Damon and Anne dutifully thanked me. Claire cried, "I can't do that!"
"Then just don't say anything, Claire."
"I have to say something to make myself feel better." She dipped her finger in the soup, licked her finger and added, "Nice try, Mom, but it could have been better." She didn't have anymore.
And I let it slide. It was better than a melt down, so I'm going to call it progress.
Damon tasted the soup without eating it, but he didn't complain, either. Anne had seconds and thirds. I love that girl's tolerant taste buds.
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