Might choke Arty, but it ain't gonna choke Stymie

They say dinner is the most important meal as far as family bonding. It's the time when families come together, share their day, and leave the table physically and emotionally refueled.

Obviously, the people who make those claims haven't had dinner at my house. Because I also come away from my table laughing.

I knew I was in for trouble as soon as I sat down for dinner the other night. Mark appeared at the table looking like a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle. He sat, smoothed his place setting, then noticed me watching him.



"What?!" he asked, as though I eat dinner with Ninja Turtles every night.

"Nothing," I answered. "Can you pass the salt, Karate Kid?"

"I'm not hungry," Mark said. Then he tucked into his dinner like it was his last.

He attacked the giant artichoke he'd picked out the night before. I selected one half the size, but Mark slapped my hand away and grabbed the biggest artichoke I've ever seen.

"This one!" he yelled. "Buy me this one!"

"I don't think that will even fit in the pot," I told him, but he wouldn't be swayed. We ended up with a two-pound artichoke which, in fact, did not fit in the pot I tried cooking it in. I figured it would take him two nights to eat that gigantic 'choke.

He dug into that monster happily, tugging off the leaves until only the suggestion of an artichoke remained. I cleaned the fuzzy parts off, and he polished off the artichoke heart, dripping butter onto the table.

"Oh my god," he moaned at the end. "I shouldn't have eaten that much..." He eyed the artichoke carcass and groaned.



He lay his head on the table for a bit, pointed at my dinner and asked, "How can you eat all that?"

"All what?" I asked. "I didn't devour my weight in artichokes like some people."

"It was...so...good," he said, like those were his dying words. "But why did you give me so much?"

"Drink your milk," I replied, which prompted the second act of his one-man-show.

"I'm so fullllllll," he grumbled. I smiled, and he sat up instantly. "Unless there's dessert..." he said. He smiled, trying to charm me in case there really was dessert.

"There's no dessert," I answered. "I don't want you to explode."

He resumed his complaining, and I gently reminded him about moderation, and how all good things come in that.

Not that I minded all that much. I mean, really, before Mark, I'd rarely seen a child willingly eat vegetables, let alone gorge himself on them. So I count my blessings (like having a child who really likes veggies) in whatever crazy, distorted way they appear.