I know what he’s going to say even before he says it.
“Mom, I want three burgers with my dinner.”
“Are you sure? You’re getting other food too. Your eyes are usually bigger than your stomach.”
“I’m sure. I’m starving.”
He’s eight. He’s a boy. He’s going to be seven feet tall.
We pull out of the drive-thru and go home. I dole out the food. He unwraps his three burgers. Halfway through the second, his sister says she’s getting full. He eyes her uneaten portion. His dad and I admonish him to finish his own before wanting someone else’s.
The third burger lays untouched in its wrapper. He complains that his stomach hurts. I told you so, I think, but of course I don’t say it. I let his tummy do the talking and kiss him on the head.
Besides, I know better than to scold him for something I do entirely too much myself.