Joint Custody

Aggghh I feel like I have joint custody of a 92-year-old toddler. Yep. Like a 2-year-old with a more extensive vocabulary. My sisters and I take turns bringing or making our father dinner. One night, the kid’s meal is “too much” to eat and the next, he wolfs down a Culver’s Double Deluxe.

It is always a mealtime adventure.

Last month:
“This is really good! I’d like this more often. What’s it called?”

“Spaghettios, Dad”

“This is horrible, What is this?

“Spaghettios, Dad.”

“Who eats this stuff, anyway?”

“Yes, Dad, it’s like ghetto spaghetti in a can. I get it. Just trying to make you happy and you loved it last month”.

“It wasn’t this stuff”.

“Yes it was.””

“I can’t keep track of what you girl’s bring me. Just don’t ever buy it again. And don’t bring me a sandwich, like you did tonight, with a lot of stuff on it.”

“It was only turkey and cheese on toast. What was too much?.”

“Just make me a normal sandwich”.

“Normal as in no cheese? Or normal as in no turkey?”

” Hmmm, How about just plain toast Jeanne?”

“Okay, Check. I’ll remember a normal sandwich is just plain toast. Love you Dad. I need to leave now” (before I burst into flames)

“Ok, thanks. I appreciate you girls. And thanks for not arguing. You were actually nice tonight.”

“Easy to be nice dad, when you are nice to me.”

“Ok, but I still miss the arguing. Kind of boring. Maybe next time we can argue about something.”

Aggghhhhh. At least he doesn’t throw food on the floor.