Dinner was not going to end well. I could sense it. My three-year-old had already been banished from the table for spitting out his pseudo-chewed chicken. The five-year-old decided to buck the current and ride it on out. She requested dessert. She was informed that there would be no reward for any dinner this particular evening.
She stares intently at me. She puts a piece of chicken into her mouth. In the blink of an eye, I hear that whistle song from old Clint Eastwood movies...You know the Westerns where the two gunslingers face off on an empty and dusty road? I imagine both myself and a miniature carbon copy of myself in some ill fitting "cowboy attire". She takes a small move to chew and the whistling gets louder. I believe my husband left the table when the tumbleweed rolled on through.
I see the gag coming. I call her bluff, "If you hork up anything at this table, you can be certain that I will have you clean it, in addition to eating what on your plate is not covered in said yak. Trust me, kid...you wanna dance - you better be prepared for the bloody battle that will be waged."
She ponders for one last moment and decides to finish chewing. I hear a cheer go up in the saloon behind me...or was that just the hubby at the refridgerator? I might never truly know.
