Having come to the conclusion that Daddy-made meals are not the best arrangement, I decided to take the boys out for dinner.

"Who wants hamburgers?" I called out from the driver's seat as we left the school parking lot.

"MEEEE!" they shrilled in unison. Now we were talking -- for the first time this week, we'd agreed on a meal. Then I made the mistake of offering options.

"Where should we go?"

"McDurgerKing!" came the discordant response. Their heads turned simultaneously for the inevitable staredown. I watched the rearview mirror in horror, anticipating the explosion.

"No! BurgDonald's!" Their eyes narrowed as I silently counted backward from five.

"DADDY! He won't let me go where I want!" was about all I could discern; then the screaming turned into something like, "Bleeeee-argle-karchem-chopfork!" as each struggled to make his voice heard above the other's.

As we approached a red light, I took a moment to breathe, then asked myself, What would Sweetie do? I could almost hear her voice inside my head: Don't just offer a compromise; trick them into thinking they came up with it.

"Cookies!" I said sharply. The buzzing sound from the backseat stopped.

"What, Daddy? What'd you say?"

"Nothing; you wouldn't be interested."

"No, tell me! Please? I thought you said 'cookie!'"

"I was just thinking, we're not too far from that cookie store at North Hills. Too bad there's not a burger place nearby, so we could stop there for dessert." Then I wait for it.

"Hey! Daddy, there's a Five Guys there!"

"Fibe Guy!"

"Are y'all sure you'd want to eat at Five Guys?"

"Yes! Fibe Guys! Five Guy! Fibe Guys!"

I whispered a little prayer of thanks to my wife as I turned in the direction of North Hills.

---

We arrived at my favorite burger joint in three happy moods, and I stood in line to order while the boys set out in search of a table to save. I forgot what this meant, until the screaming started again. I looked up and saw them locked in a tug-of-war, each pulling the other's shirt with one hand while locking tight on the edge of a table with the other. The two tables were right next to each other, and I could see no discernible difference between them, other than each one was chosen by the other brother. As they tugged on each other, they implored me: "This table! Dis table!"

Meanwhile, a non-supportive, non-sympathetic fellow dad was sitting at a table behind them, looking at me with a smirk on his face as if to say, Are you going to handle this, or are you secretly female?

This was the moment, then. All week, I'd been giving in; I knew it had to culminate with a public test of my parenting skills, a moment in which I'd have to prove my dadliness and actually take charge of a situation. I straightened my shirt, stepped out of line, and marched over, prepared to do whatever it took to wipe that smirk off his face.

"BOYS!" I screamed in my loudest, angriest voice. They let go of each other in shock, each almost falling into the table of his choice. "YOU'RE BOTHERING PEOPLE! STOP RIGHT NOW, OR NO BURGERS!" They went instantly silent, leaving only my angry voice as the loud distraction.

I knelt to their level, just like Supernanny says to do, and brought my voice to a calmer (but still stern) level: "Now listen. You just lost your right to pick a table; we're all going to sit where I say. But first, you're going to come back and stand in line with me, where you're going to be quiet, be patient, and behave."

I stood up before the chorus of "Aww, man!" could start, whirled on one heel, and marched back to the line at the counter, where two people had already stolen my place. I turned and looked for the smirking dad, but he was nowhere to be seen. I had a moment of panic when I realized I didn't see my sons, either, until I realized they were right behind me in single file -- quiet, patient and behaving.

We ordered, paid and proceeded to the seats I chose, where I looked around again for the Smirker. No luck. He'd been in the middle of a half-pound of cheeseburger when I'd first noticed him; there was no way he could have finished and left during the 60-second conflict and resolution that had taken my attention from him. I could only conclude that he'd been either a messenger sent to provoke "the moment" or an hallucination brought on by sheer exhaustion. I didn't care which, as the three of us sat and enjoyed our dinner together.

Thing 2 even waited until he truly was finished before claiming to be finished. At that point, he got down to perform The Dance.

This is something of a restaurant tradition for him -- if the PA is playing anything lively, he'll seek out a wide patch of table-free floorspace in which to dance. It's a dance unlike any motion I've ever seen, and I'm not sure words can do it justice -- he'll sort of pitch and reel, turning on his heels while he shakes his hips and wiggles his arms, like a mini-Elvis who's about a half-beat off from the actual rhythm of the song. It's strange, but also strangely entertaining.

The Dance never fails to elicit smiles from nearby adults, which is probably what motivates him to start dancing the next time. This case was no exception, as the middle-aged woman across the aisle from us watched for a moment in startled bemusement before her face broke into a large grin. I don't know if she was smiling at the moves themselves, or the fact that a three-year-old was dancing to George Thorogood's "Bad To The Bone."

Even the added attention wasn't enough to foul the mood of Thing 1, who normally tires of The Dance within 10 seconds, and insists that Thing 2 return to his seat at once and stop embarrassing everybody. This time, all Thing 1 did was make eye contact with the woman across the aisle, shake his head, shrug, and say, "Little brothers!"

With bellies full and behavior reigned in, we left Five Guys for the cookie store, then sat on a bench near the Commons to enjoy the summer evening. Thing 1 told me corny jokes while Thing 2 shouted compliments on driving skills to passing vehicles: "Good turning, Man! Nice stopping, Girl!"

Thing 1 was between punchlines when he realized he and Thing 2 were the only ones eating cookies. "Daddy! Don't you want dessert?"

"No thanks, Doodlebug. I'm too busy savoring the sweet taste of being in control."

"You're weird, Dad."

"Sure I am, son. Sure I am. Did I mention your mother's coming back tonight?"

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