We were eating our dinner of chicken, tortellini, veggies and oranges. Well, some of us were eating.
Tate was finished about the time I had dished up everyone else. He is my least picky eater, but then, he ate bugs as a toddler ("Hello, Poison Control...") so that may not always be an attribute.
Wyatt was getting along okay.
But Gunnar was just moving the tiny servings around on his plate and doing his usual trick of chewing each bite 700 times. (And avoiding eye contact.)
I tried to encourage him. "Good job, Gunnar, you ate two of your chicken bites!"
"Mom. I ate a lot more than that! I ate ALL but two bites."
"Gunnar, you only had four to begin with."
His math is just fine, but I'm afraid he may have a future in politics.
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