Not a fork, not a spoon

We’re crappy parents these days in part because we’re often on the run because of showings of our house. It’s hard to work up the motivation to cook a decent dinner and dirty a bunch of dishes when you know that at any moment, the realtor could call to boot you out of your house so somebody can come poke around for five minutes of the hour that you feel compelled to stay away just in case they’re serious buyers. So we’ve been feeding Lennie lots of hot dogs and Taco Bell. Today, as she was using a spork to eat a chicken soft taco (we’re such bad parents that she knows the word “tortilla”), M asked her what the quirky utensil was. “Not a fork, not a spoon,” she replied, and that was that. Seems to me like a pretty darned good answer.

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