Tomorrow we are going to a BBQ. Great, you say, Gina's life is so boring that a regular old BBQ gets a blog mention.
Well, not quite.
You see, I don't know the family in question all that well. The husband is a good work-friend of Hubba-hubba's. His wife I am friendly with, but not someone I would call my friend. You get the difference, right? We have met up with them a couple of times prior, but always "out" and not at one of our houses.
Tomorrow we are going to their house, and in the spirit of "guestliness" (I must copyright and trademark that this instant) I called up the wife and asked what we could contribute to the BBQ. I was equally fine with appetizer, side dish, or dessert. She told me the menu, and then she chose dessert. I asked if there was anything specific that anyone in her family of four could not eat, or would not want in a dessert. Affirmative, strawberries make the youngest daughter break out in a rash.
Good, glad I asked.
But after hanging up, I realized that based on the menu she had described, there was not one blessed thing that Mr. P would eat.
A dilemma of my own making, I suppose you could say. If I was the kind of parent who made their children eat whatever was placed in front of them, I would be dilemma-less. However, I am not, so that is just wishful thinking at this point.
I suppose I could hold out hope that he will try the tri-tip and mashed potatoes and salad and like them. That would be the best scenario, by far. But the most likely scenario is that he will taste them and reject them, thus eating nothing for dinner.
I dislike my child to go to bed hungry, although I realize it certainly isn't the end of the world.
Hubba-hubba suggested that we bring some food of our own for him. I berated him for thinking like a man, and "suggested" that doing so would be a huge insult to our hosts. I mean, here they invite us to their home, cook us food, and we say, sorry, we have a picky eater! Do you mind if I micro this mac and cheese? Never mind those homemade mashed potatoes you slaved over all afternoon, homey over here has never liked them! (And, I just let out a big secret that I call Mr. P "homey" all the time! Does that make me a candidate for "Bad Mother of the Year?")
I'm not alone in that thought, am I?
I'm guessing the boy is just gonna have to deal.