Today is my dad's birthday, and he chose The Black-Eyed Pea for lunch after church. He dearly loves southern cooking, and fresh bread, and carrot cake.
Our server's name was Richard. He did a fine job waiting on us, I have to say. And I tend to have ridiculously high standards for our restaurant experiences.
Tucker was going about another game of Hide, asking everyone at the table to take a turn. He had made his rounds, and he was working his way through another, but all of the adults at the table were losing interest.
My mom said, "You could ask Richard to play when he comes back."
I casually said, "You should ask him. But call him Dick."
I happen to think this is a very funny nickname for Richard, but I'm sure I'm the only one who thinks so.
And just like that, Tucker burst out with, "Di....ck. Dick. Dick."
And that's what I get for being a smart mouth, for momentarily forgetting that my son can understand everything I say, and for foolishly expecting that this wouldn't be his moment to parrot what he had just heard.
Robb and I were both laughing and blushing... he looked at me and said, "Tricia! You have to be careful!"
Yep. That's what I get.