It all started on a sunny Saturday when Nikki and I decided to treat ourselves to a “fancy” lunch at Burger King. There we were, enjoying the blissful smell of fried potatoes and grilled Whoppers. I’d gotten myself a medium fry and a small one for Nikki because, you know, little kids have little appetites, right? (she was 5 at the time)
Wrong.
As soon as we sat down, Nikki went full chipmunk on me. She grabbed a fistful of fries, stuffed them into her cheeks, and started munching like it was an Olympic event. I blinked, taken aback, and asked, “Nikki, what are you doing?”
Without missing a beat, cheeks bulging like a squirrel storing nuts for winter, she mumbled, “Trying to eat my fries before you do.”
I froze. My child was inhaling her fries because she thought I was going to eat them? What kind of potato thief had I become? The realization hit harder than the smell of hot oil in the air.
“Nikki,” I started, feigning offense. “I would never steal your fries!”
She paused mid-munch, narrowing her eyes. “Last week, at McDonald’s, you said you didn’t want fries. Then you ate mine.”
Touché, Nikki. Touché.
The worst part? She was right. That day, I realized I had a French fry problem, and it was time to turn my life around—or at least start ordering my own fries.
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