There's something fishy about this

A little cautionary tale from our vacation. When your 7 year old tells you his chicken tenders 'taste like fish', don't be so quick to clip him around the ears and insist he knocks it off and eats them

 or he can jolly well go to bed hungry... 

So we're in this really nice seafood establishment where Joe and I have ordered fish and shrimp and crab. William of course, sticks with his tried and true chicken tenders and fries from the kid's menu.

It had been a great day. We'd survived almost being struck by lightening on the pier then managed to drive through the flash flooded streets of Nags Head to get to the restaurant.

The food arrived and looked almost as great as my frozen margarita. William took a bite of his chicken, dipped in ketchup of course, and instantly made a face like he'd swallowed a mouthful of poison.

"Mommy this doesn't taste good. It tastes like fish."

I took a bite. Tasted like chicken to me.

"It does not taste like fish, it is chicken. Eat it please."

He takes another bite. This time a fry. Dipped in ketchup. Same face.

"Mommy it really tastes horrible. I don't like it. The fries taste like fish too. It's too spicy. How can you make me eat something if I don't like it? If *you* don't like something you send it back. How come I can't do that? I want a hamburger instead..."

Before long, our child is wailing, tears rolling down his cheeks, because we are forcing him to eat the chicken. Lecturing him about starving children in third world countries who would be GRATEFUL to eat rancid chicken, let alone be taken out a restaurant while on VACATION no less! No, young man, you are NOT going to order something else, you are going to eat that CHICKEN!

(Joe: "Do you know when *I* was your age we NEVER went to restaurants..." (blah blah blah zzzzzzz)

Our waiter comes over to see if everything's ok. I tell him my child claims his chicken tastes like fish but I realise it's just his imagination. The waiter assures me the chicken is not cooked in the same pans as the fish but he would be happy to bring him something else.

Oh no, he's going to eat this chicken if it kills him I start to say but then Joe relents and says ok, please bring him a hamburger. I begin ranting that if the hamburger tastes like fish then blah blah blah zzzzzz.

The hamburger arrives. I need another margarita. The waiter asks if he can get us anything else.

I sigh. No thanks, we have ketchup, we're good. Oh wait. In fact, we have two bottles of ketchup. That's weird. I wonder why we have two bottles of ketchup? Don't you think that's strange, that we have two bottles of ketchup I say idly to no one in particular.

Yes. Well. That would be because one of the bottles of ketchup is not ketchup. It's cocktail sauce. Nice and spicy cocktail sauce. That I had liberally poured onto my child's plate. That he had been dipping his chicken and fries into. Madly insisting that something was wrong. Being dismissed as a whining fool.

Major. Parenting. Fail. 

Above. Cocktail sauce. Right. Ketchup. Both red. But not the same. Not even close.
Any seven year old could tell you that.