You may recall that our children have limited experience with fast food.
Last weekend the girls and I drove to my mother-in-law’s for the day, about an hour’s drive. I neglected to bring water for them to drink, thinking they’d likely fall asleep early in the car ride. But no; we ate yogurt covered pretzels early in the drive and, oops, they were intensely, complainingly thirsty. So, halfway to grandma’s we pulled into the drive-thru of an exurban burger joint.
“One cheeseburger and two cups of water,” I said into the microphone.
“Ohkayyy?” answered the bored teenaged voice from inside. “One fourteen at the first window, please.”
As we drove forward the girls tittered about the mention of a cheeseburger. “Mama!” enthused August, “What is this place called?” When I told her, she went into a minute of stuttering thought.
“I, um, um, Mama? Um. Um, I sing a song. Um, May, what’s that song I sing in my school? With any animal you want and a moo moo here?”
We each ate one-third of a cheeseburger and drank all the water we needed, and we sang “Old MacDonald” the rest of the way to Grandma’s house.
And no one threw up.
On the other shore of the generation gap, there is my dad, who has just purchased a laptop and, despite my gentle corrections, persists in calling it a McBook.