Small children

One Saturday back in 2002, we planned a family lunch to Steak n’ Shake, which had recently opened in town. The kids were eager, except one. Our youngest, then three, staunchly refused to accompany us in peace.

“I don’t want a steak and I don’t want a shake! I’m not going!” she cried.

We assured her that there would be chicken strips on the menu and that she didn’t have to get a shake, but she still loudly protested the plan.

Then I had an idea. Since she’d never been to Steak n’ Shake before, and since she couldn’t yet read, I could just make up a name. I said, “You know Nat, I’ve changed my mind. I think I really want to go to The Happy Chicken. I hope the kids aren’t too disappointed.”

She took the bait and triumphantly went to tell the kids of the new plans. They were a little disappointed until I could convey my scheme. Amanda and Ryan really helped to sell the name all the way there, and Erika just about blew it when we pulled into the S&S parking lot and she quizzically said, “I thought we were going to Chicken Happy.”

Nat didn’t catch on, and we enjoyed a nice lunch. However, to this day the kids will debate if it was called “The Happy Chicken” or “Chicken Happy.” I actually don’t mind this argument because (1) they routinely argue about things even less important than fictitious restaurant names and (2) it brings back a fond memory. I like the kids at their current ages, but I miss having small children.