"Mommy, make me happy."
This is what Chef Jr said to me a few minutes ago. He said it in a silly, sing song voice, so I asked why he wanted to be hOppy, because beers are hoppy.
"Mommy, make me HAPpy."
I had a kid in my arms by this time, so I gave him a squeeze and some smooches, figuring that would do the trick.
"No, Mommy, make me HAPPY!"
I finally asked what exactly would make him happy.
"Mommy, make me FOOOOOOOOOOOD."
After months of getting meals like this for dinner
(Last night's dinner, swedish meatballs. From scratch. Nearly gone, so don't ask for some!)
I'd say the menfolk are just a little spoiled. Especially since the kid had two years of cooking school and is capable of feeding himself.
Ah, so 'Make me happy" translates into 'make me food'. Gotcha. I ask what food will make him happy and the response was pretty vague.
I've got an idea, and I tell him.
"Mom is going to go into the pantry, pick three cans at random (blindfolded), dump them in a bowl and make you lunch."
The child blocked me from the pantry. I finally get the door open and reach in without looking. This is what will be lunch today:
Somehow, I don't think that will make anyone's stomach happy.
So I made hot dogs.
Yes, it made him happy.