Shooting yourself in the foot

I had been craving a chicken burrito from Chipotle with a powerful craving.  Those things are divine.

Mark and I needed to go to the mall to restock clothing for the pesky children who refuse to stop growing so I decided we would stop at Chipotle--you know, while we were in the area.

Mark didn't want to.

His vote was McDonald's.  There is nothing good at McDonald's (except for the Diet Coke + big straw...that is genius).  We argued back and forth but I have all the power in these sort of situations because I have the car, driver's license, money, etc.  (Motherhood:  not a bad gig.)

I assured him he would love Chipotle.  He promised me he would not.  I assured him I would find something he liked.

On the kids' menu--which Mark often spurns of late because it's not enough food--there was a cheese quesadilla.  Every kid in America likes a cheese quesadilla, right?  It's sort of their birthright.

Mark agreed and I got my lovely chicken burrito.

He eyed the teeny tiny bundle of tinfoil that was his quesadilla.

"So when's the quesadilla coming?" he asked.

I pointed to the teeny tiny bundle of tinfoil that was his quesadilla.  He looked at me with a look of scorn you would not normally think a ten year old capable of.

"That?" he asked, poking it.

It was gone in seconds as were the teeny tiny piles of rice and beans that accompany the kids' meal.  (Note to self:  Mark is too big for the kids' meal at Chipotle.)

I gave him a bite of my chicken burrito.  He loved it!  Good news!  Now he too will want to go to Chipotle!

Bad news.  He ate half of it.