Last night when Mr. Schmitty got home from work, I suggested we go to the local mall. It was my birthday and I was NOT cooking. I had been with kids all day; mine and 4 other neighborhood children. I needed to get out of this house.
The Schmitty clan got to the mall and W. immediately began showing signs of an attitude brewing. He didn't want to be there and when W. doesn't want to be somewhere, he makes it quite clear to all around him, that.he.doesn't.want.to.be.there.
I thought maybe he was hungry. Hunger always makes him ornery. I told everyone to follow me. The mall had opened a new Johnny Rockets. Hot dogs, Burgers, and Fries. I couldn't go wrong with that, could I?
Yea, apparently I could.
W. was whining that he didn't want to eat hot dogs or anything else on the menu. He then refused to order anything when the waiter wrote down our drinks.
I told him to suit himself, he could eat when we got home. That's how you get to W. You don't react, you just go about your business. He ordered.
Well, at least he's going to eat. He wasn't going to smile though. Nobody was going to make him smile, laugh, or enjoy himself. No matter how hard we tried.
Suddenly, all of the staff in the restaurant began to dance to Y.M.C.A. He practically fell under the table. You have no idea how much restraint it took me not to jump up and join them. Just to annoy him. But I behaved. I think that would have sent him over the edge and I didn't want to cause a scene.
After the song was over, he finally emerged from hiding.
"Listen Spongebob Moodypants, it's my birthday and I would like you to try and at least pretend you are having a good time."
All I got was an eye roll.
The waiter brought the french fries to our table. The little cardboard bowls he brought for the ketchup had some writing on the sides. I hear W. moan and groan, "UGHHHHH....I don't want to smile!"
He proceeded to scribble over the writing with a crayon.
Did he seriously think that message was just for him? I had to stifle my laugh.
He then went to take a drink from his paper cup. "OH MY GOD, would they just leave me alone!"
"Now, what?" I ask.
"LOOK! It says SWEETHEART!" he practically screams at me.
"That's the name of the company that makes the lid, knucklehead."
I swear if he were a girl, he'd be getting his period any day now.