Once upon a time, my brother dropped his fork at the table every single night. It made my father insane. In fact, he had a neck vein that would pop out when M would drop a utensil.
ChowderBoy has a vein just like it so tonight I demonstrated a story from my childhood.
See, Dad went through crankypants years and would slam his fist on the table when we would start kicking each other or whining or not eating or whatever annoying shit it is that kids do at the dinner table to make their parents lose their minds.
One night, he slammed his fist on the table and accidentally hit a utensil which went flying.
Tonight I was telling this story and I smacked my fist on the table and flung a fork in the air and it landed prongs down on ChowderBoy's head. When he started crying, I picked him up and carried him into the living room to comfort him. I promptly slammed his head on the edge of the couch.
Thankfully, cool-headed German au pair, #1 (now #4) brought in a frozen chicken breast to put on his head.
Problem solved.
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