Breakfast at McDonald’s

It is Sunday morning and we go to a nearby McDonald’s that is embedded in a Walmart. Upon arriving we find a young father has brought his three children, ages about 6, 4, and 2. They are vocal, as least the girl, whom I think is Gabby is (as badly as we wanted to turn and stare, we did not).

At one point the smallest one is adding syrup to her sausage/biscuit. A few minutes later Gabby drops her butter underneath the table. “No you can’t give your sausage to your sister because you are sick,” he tells someone.

When they are preparing to leave Dad instructs Gabby to go under the table and use a napkin to pick up the butter. “I don’t know how,” she whines. “Figure it out,” he growls. Dad is overwhelmed.

Then they go shopping, the smallest one in the cart, the other two gripping the sides. Before we were finished with our breakfast they are heading home with only a few items, treats for Mom, no doubt.

This family has created a memory for us. The children have forged a flashback for Dad, I suspect.

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