Picky Eater

"Daddy's back!" I announce gleefully, walking through the door and into a disaster area. "What the heck happened here?"

"Thank God you're home," my wife says, exasperated. "We decided to play with the cars, but then Kevin and Mike couldn't agree on how many turns to include on the racetrack, so Kevin dumped all the Hot Wheels and Mike threw one and, well, you know how these things go. How was it out there?"

"Um, I think it was better out there than it was in here." I open my bag and hold up the cereal bars. "And look what I scored, guys!"

"Bars!" Kevin squeals. "I love bars!"

"I know, bud. Let's open one up. We'll clean up later."

I grab two plates from the cabinet and put one cereal bar on each.

"Thanks, Daddy," says Mike, politely taking his portion. "Yum!"

"Kevin, what do you say to Daddy?" My wife prompts.

"Yuck! This isn't strawberry," he yells, spitting out his bite and flinging his plate like a frisbee.

I'm dumbfounded. It's the frigging zombie apocalypse. Like, come on, kid, get with the program.

"You know he only likes strawberry," my wife says.

"Well, maybe next time you should go to the store and I can stay home with the kids," I grumble.

This shit better end soon, because I'm not sure what will kill us first: the zombies, the lack of food, or Kevin's picky eating.