So my son has all but given up dinner. He sits, against his will, at the dinner table like the actor he is. This is when the shenanigans begin. Textbook shenanigans. He rubs his eyes.
He stares blankly ahead as if begging a mysterious force to compassionately suck his dinner plate into its mouth, spork and all.
It's getting cold, Grayson.
His body tilts sideways to now direct his desperate gaze out the window. He reaches up to unlatch the locks. Hot steamy broccoli demons are released into the stratosphere, perilously close to his unadulterated nostrils. That was a close one.
Just eat your dinner, Dude.
He pushes his plate one centimeter this way, half a centimeter that way and then jiggles it for good measure. No doubt this dinner dance will result in ranch dip, M&Ms, and probably gummy sharks falling from the sky, thus smothering all offensive proteins and cooked green mushy evil on his plate.
"I'll be right back," Tom Hanks announces as he bolts upstairs and disappears into the bathroom. We call it Area 51. Nobody really knows what goes on in there but we all have our suspicions it's probably not good.
He returns a few minutes later. Obviously after giving the go ahead to launch another spy plane over great planes and deep valleys. He looks older, wiser, less hungry even. There is no time for applesauce, people are dying out there, Woman.
Your dinner is cold now, Grayson.
It's okay, Mommy, he seems to reassure with a quick nod and firm squeeze of Foxy Loxy's tail.
There will be no dishes tonight.