My husband Brad’s addiction to restaurants rivals that of chain-smoking in both intensity and regret. While he’s thin and checks out fine medically, he frequently moans about clogging arteries. Moments later, he’s driving out to eat.
Like any good junkie, he doesn’t want his children to follow in his footsteps. So last May, when Caroline saw her soccer teammates heading to Waffle House after a game, Brad put his foot down and chose a healthier restaurant. Waffle House, to Caroline, became forbidden fruit. Fruit, that is, sitting atop a waffle drowned in syrup and butter.
After months of withstanding her begging and mournful gaze at each glowing yellow Waffle House sign, I couldn’t take it anymore. And so, when Brad left for a weekend at seminary, I informed him I was indulging the girls in a night at Waffle House.
Caroline screamed with excitement and rushed us out the door.
Amelia and I are not pictured at the table. We didn’t eat much. We couldn’t. We were more like storm watchers, bug-eyed as Caroline inhaled every hash-brown and waffle in her path. I got pictures only of Hurricane Caroline.
After this picture, Caroline finished both Amelia’s waffle and my hash-browns. I’m not kidding. A grown man could not eat so much.
Then, she asked if we could come again tomorrow. Really?
Off to google twelve step programs for four year olds…