We are back home. But this is like turning a plane. We have 17 minutes before we need to be back in the car.
Griffin is staring at his pizza as if it is going to leap up and eat his head.
“What are you looking at?” I peer over his shoulder. It looks like a slice of pizza.
“That.” He is pointing to a spot of sauce that is probably 10 microns larger than the other 400 spots of sauce on pizza. “And this pepperoni does not look fresh.”
Argh. Iron Chef is a pussy compared to this.
“Griffin, just eat. We have to go.”
Back in the car. 4 of us. 5 if you count the slice of pizza. I have triggered “the Battle of Wills” which is like an actual, I don’t know, thing. Like “the 600 yard dash”. The “Battle of Wills” is a contest I typically win simply because I am a black belt and most of my children are still novices. Except for Griffin. Griffin is like the sensei. I have this sneaking suspicion this slice is going to be following us around for days. Like that @^#$*&#^ Oreo…