Our Kids, Lately

A random collection of recent kid things:

Tate

> While trying to get him dressed, I say, "Tate, do you know who loves you? Me."

"No!" he shouts before smacking me in the face. "I love YOU!" Such loving anger. 

> Tate pretty much runs this house. Whenever he's playing or distracted, I try to sneak away and have some quiet time. But the second he realizes I'm gone, he'll track me down, wherever I'm hiding. If I'm in my room watching TV, he'll barge in and demand that I change the station to something he wants to watch. Lately, however, he's been allowing me some concessions...kind of. Sometimes he'll say things like, "Dad, I want to watch the Jazz." This would be nice if it were ever when the Jazz were playing. I'll respond, "That's nice, buddy, but it's 8:00 in the morning." Or he'll say, "I want to watch the Broncos." "Sorry, buddy, the Broncos don't play again until August." These responses are never good enough. "I want to watch the Broncos. RIGHT NOW!" I just can't win. 

> Speaking of TV, here's another common trick of Tate's. I'll be lying on the bed, watching TV. He'll put a pillow on my head, sit on the pillow, and then declare triumphantly, "Dad, you can't see your show!"  

Curtis

My birthday is tomorrow. A couple of days ago, out of the blue, Curtis ran upstairs and into his bedroom. When he came back, he said, "Here, Dad. It's an early birthday present." He dropped 47 cents into my palm and then ran off again. 

Paige

Paige and I have been watching the Olympics together the past few nights. Thanks to her patriotism and steel-trap memory, she delivers comments like, "Come on Shiffrin, you need to defend your title" and "I'm so excited that Maddie Bowman won the first-ever gold in women's ski halfpipe." Sure you are, Paige. Sure you are. 

The Life and Death of Dorothy the Fish

Paige wanted a pet so bad. A dog, or a cat, or a hamster, or a guinea big. But we said no. She had to settle for a fish. 

Armed with a bag full of allowance change, she picked out a pretty little beta fish and promptly named her Dorothy. (Paige and I knew Dorothy was a male, but we agreed we didn't need to get hung up on technicalities.)

Dorothy couldn't have asked for a better owner. Paige cleaned her tank once a week and fed her every day -- she even made a little chart that she hung on her wall and marked the exact time that she fed her. 

She didn't stop there. She would google things like "how to bond with your beta fish." That's how she came up with the idea to draw pictures on Dorothy's tank (because "betas are very curious") and why she tried to teach Dorothy tricks like following her finger (which wasn't incredibly successful).

But all that love couldn't save Dorothy.

Paige came into our bedroom this morning and said, "I think Dorothy's sick."

Sure enough, she was on the bottom of the tank, barely moving. It was time to face the inevitable.

As Paige was quietly sobbing, we tried to console her.

"I remember when my fishes Missy and Kissy died," Traci said. "Maybe Dorothy will get to play with them in fish heaven."

Between tears, Paige replied, "Mom, you know that betas don't play well with others." (Thanks, internet.)

Her tears continued through the first hour of church, but she was in better spirits after Primary. On the way home she told me, "The good news is that I can get another beta for $2.99."

When we got home, she made this tribute to Dorothy on her whiteboard.

"You can't kiss a fish. But you can miss a fish."

We miss you, Dorothy. 

"Make a Pool"

Tate. It's funny how his little mind processes the world. The other day, he and I were sitting on my bed watching TV. He turned to me and said, "Make a pool."

After three kids and eight years of parenting, I'm getting pretty good at deciphering random demands like this. I somehow knew that Tate wanted me to sit cross-legged, essentially making a "pool" in between my two legs. 

So I did. But I didn't do it right. 

"No!" he shouted. "That's a pond! Make a pool!"

Now I was confused. What could possibly be the difference between a pond and a pool? After much trial and error, I realized that until I crossed my ankles, my legs would remain a pond.

Once I remedied the situation, we had ourselves a proper pool. 

Immediately, Tate shouted," Cannonbaaaaaaaalllll!" and jumped right in.

Curtis Finds His Dream Job

We took the kids to Discovery Gateway yesterday. Even Curtis, who refuses to smile about anything, couldn't stop grinning while he was playing in the construction zone.

But that was nothing compared to his happiness working as a mailman. 

  

He spent at least an hour picking up the mail from the big, blue mailbox and delivering it to all of the little mailboxes around the museum--the market, the farm, and even the dog house. (Luckily, Paige was happy to keep retuning all of the mail to the big box, so he could just keep delivering and delivering.) 

And the fun didn't end there. When he got home, Paige dumped out every tupperware container in the house and turned them into mailboxes. With a grocery bag slung over his shoulder, Curtis delivered mail to our room, Paige's room, the family room, and the kitchen. Over and over.  

Today, when I got home from church, Paige had even made name tags for Curtis and his junior assistant. It looks like their company is called the Mailman Brothers. 

  

Watch out FedEx, the Sutherland boys are gunning for you.

Paige's First Solo

If you've ever been to a Mormon Primary Program (where the kids sing and do all the talks during Sacrament Meeting), you've probably noticed that there's always one kid who sings about twice as loud as all the others combined.

In our ward, that kid is not only loud, but sings with enough vibrato to make any opera singer jealous. That kid is Paigey

We've known this about Paige for a few years now, we just hoped that others wouldn't notice. Well, they did.

A few weeks before the Primary Program, Paige was asked if she would sing a solo. She was ecstatic about the opportunity. We were a little nervous about it, especially since she refuses to sing in front of us, which means should wouldn't practice at all.

Paige didn't seem to get nervous until the day of the event, when we were driving to church. "My stomach feels weird," she said.

By the time she was sitting on the stand, fidgeting uncomfortably, I could tell she was really nervous. But she still probably wasn't as nervous as Traci and I.

When she walked up to the microphone, all alone, my heart was thumping in my ears. The piano started, the chorister raised her arm, and give Paige her cue. After a small pause--which felt like a mega enormous is-she-going-to-do-it pause to her parents--a voice as big as a house excited our tiny daughter's body.

She did a wonderful(ly dramatic) job. We were very proud of her.

She was also proud of herself. As she went back to her seat to sing the remainder of the songs with the the primary, she was beaming. She continued to belt the songs out, louder than anyone else but now with her arms crossed proudly across her chest and her eyes closed like an R&B diva.

After the program, she was showered with praise from just about everyone. She, of course, let this go directly to her head.

After church, we had this conversation:

Me: Paige, you did a great job. Do you think you'd want to try taking voice lessons?

Paige: [Rolling her eyes] Voice lessons? What are voice lessons?

Me: It's like your piano lessons, but you practice singing.

Paige: Dad, I take piano lessons so I can get good at playing piano. I'm already good at singing.

Later that night, I left the kids in the car while I dropped some keys off at the Relief Society president's house. When I got back in, Paige said, "Let me guess, Sister Rickards told you what a good job I did." (No, Paige. I'm sorry to say she didn't mention it.)

It's good to have a confident kid.

--

On a related note, Curtis also refuses to sing. But not just in front of us, he refuses to sing ever. (Well, that's not entirely true. I have heard him singing C&C Music Factory in the bathroom.) He once again refused to sing during the Primary Program. But we had a few major breakthroughs. Not only did he stay on the stage for the whole program (with his lips pursed so no singing could slip out), but he actually said his one-sentence part into the microphone. (Last year, he walked up to the microphone and not only refused to deliver his line, but turned his back to the audience. Take that, crowd!) It was super fast and completely mumbly, but he did it. Another proud parent moment.

Jazz Game Night, Take Two

Last April, I attempted to take Curtis to his first Jazz game, only to have him decide at the last second that he didn't want to go.

Because I'm a resilient father (or maybe stubborn...or stupid), I gave it another shot.

I  tried to learn from last season's mistake. This time around, we left straight from our house so the allure of grandma's house or cookies or toys could not distract him. Traci was not allowed to speak of what she, Paige, and Tate were going to do while we were gone. We were only focusing on the game.

We successfully made it into the car (which I know isn't true success; I still remember when I took Curtis to Monster Jam and he didn't start bawling until we were all the way to the arena) and he was still pretty excited about the game.

At the Gateway before the game

We made it to the arena and he was still happy. It was free t-shirt night, so Curtis and I put on our matching shirts--me in a Men's XL and Curtis in the smallest size available, a Men's L that went down to his calves--and made our way to our seats.

It only got better from there:

• We had aisle seats on the eighth row (thanks, New Job)
• The Jazz Bear slid down the stairs on his sled right next to us
• The Jazz dancers danced right next to us (Dad like this part)
• During a timeout, the Jazz Bear played Curt's favorite sport, human bowling, and got a strike (with the help of Little Jazz Bear)!
• Curtis and were on the Jumbo Tron for like 15 seconds (me shaking my keys and whooping it up for the "Show us Your Keys" contest; Curtis refusing to acknowledge the camera) 

Curtis, being Curtis, did not allow his emotions to get the best of him. I don't think I saw him smile the entire night. (But I did spy the half-smile he does when he wants to smile, but doesn't want you to see it.) But I knew he was having a great time.

In our matching shirts

On the ride home, I asked him what his favorite part of the game was. In classic Curtis fashion, he said it was when I bought him a bouncy ball out of the vending machine by the parking lot. But when we got home, his true feelings were revealed.

He ran straight up to Paige and said excitedly, "Paige! We got shirts and the Jazz Bear rode on his sled and Dad was shaking his keys and the Jazz wore their green jerseys but they didn't win and the Jazz Bear knocked down all the pins and I got this cool bouncy ball."

The night was a success. He's already asked when we can go to another game.

And that makes my heart happy.

RELATED POSTS

• Go, Jazz, Go!
• When Your Kid Decides to Turn You Down for a Date
• Dad vs. Lint

Our Own Baby Moses in the Basket

We've created a (red-headed) monster. We learned long ago that kids like non-toy toys way better than toy-toys (have you ever seen a kid choose a toy cell phone over a real one? and what's more fun than playing with the remote?).

Every time Traci folds the laundry, Tate clamors to get in the basket. He loves it when I push him around the floor in the basket or shake it (like a Polaroid picture). A couple of weeks ago, he realized that he could transform the laundry basket into a relaxation station. He got his blanket, his bottle, and a pillow. You've never seen a happier kid.

I jokingly asked if he wanted to sleep in there. Stupid question. Of course he did.

"Sorry, kid, you can't really sleep in the basket."

Paige--ever the helper--chimed in. "But dad, he really wants to sleep in the basket. Why don't you just let him?"

"Because I don't want him all scrunched in there and because I don't want him to tip over in the middle of the night and get trapped under the basket." And, for good measure, I added,"And suffocate and die."

But it was too late. The seed had been planted. Every night before bed, Tate asked if he could sleep in his basket. And every night I'd say no. Until one particularly crappy night where Tate was (again) refusing to go to bed. I gave in and put him in the basket. Problem solved. He went to sleep.

Problem created.  Now he'll only sleep in his basket.

So every night, we go through the following routine:

• Put Tate and all of his accoutrements (blanket, pillow, stuffed monkey, books) in the basket
• Hoist the basket into his crib
• Wait long enough that he's asleep - but not too long that I fall asleep - before going into his room, taking him out of the basket, and putting him in the crib

There have been a few nights when I've forgotten that he was still in his basket, only to be awakened by a screeching two year old at 2 a.m. Luckily, you just have to rescue him from the tipped-over basket and he goes right back to sleep. 

We're great parents. 

Paige Bailey, 8 Years Old

For the most part, Traci and I started having kids the same time as the rest of our friends. So, that means our kids have reached milestones at about the time--off to nursery, off to preschool, off to kindergarten. Each of these landmarks have been important for sure, but also incremental and manageable. (Well, off to kindergarten was pretty scary for mom and dad.) Age eight--the one where they get baptized and start making that transition from little kid to big kid--always seemed so far away.

But now it's here.

We are the parents of an eight year old.

Paige is ready to be eight. Actually, I think she'd feel just fine being 13, the way she bosses us around and makes it clear that she knows everything.  She's incredibly smart, often very sweet, and more often very stubborn. And we love her.

Age eight seems like a good time to look back at how she's grown (and to wonder where the time has gone).

After a pretty scary emergency C-section, this little baby came out perfect.

 

At age 1, Paige kind of had the shape of a bowling bowl. (And the hair of Beavis and Butt-head--completely missing on the sides.)

By age two, Paige had inherited her mother's curly hair, which she twirled in her fingers incessantly. 

 

By the time she was three, Paige had become a big sister. (She liked Curtis a lot more then than she does now.)

 

By age four, to her mother's chagrin, the curls started to disappear. 

The five-year-old princess spent her birthday at Disneyland.

When  she was six, Paige had to share the house (and the spotlight) with Curtis and Tate.

 

Age seven was when the teeth started falling out. 

 

And here we are today. We're pretty lucky to have her.

Why I Never Want to Drive the Carpool Again

Yesterday, I had the singular privilege of driving the carpool. I had Curtis and three seven-year-old girls riding with me in the minivan. Within minutes of our departure, they started playing the "raise your hand if..." game. It started like this.

"Raise your hand if you've seen Monsters University."

And, logically, went to this.

"Raise your hand if you've seen Despicable 2."

I wasn't too surprised when it took a more aspirational turn.

"Raise your hand if you wish that you could live at Disneyland."

"Raise your hand if you wish the sky was made out of cotton candy."

Then Curtis added his two cents.

"Raise your hand if you want to punch Santa in the head and take all of his presents." (That's my boy!)

From there, the conversation devolved into the most random collection of thoughts I have ever heard.

"Raise your hand if you want a giant red star to explode and destroy the entire earth."

"Raise your hand if you want California to slide into the ocean." (From the "red star" girl.)

"Raise your hand if your great grandpa is Russell M. Nelson."

"Raise your hand if you want to kiss Abraham Lincoln." (From Curtis.)

"Raise your hand if your mom voted for Mitt Romney."

"Raise your hand if Barack Obama made your dad lose his job."

"Raise your hand if you want to become the president so you can make everyone in the world kill themselves." (More "red star." What are they reading at that house?)

Does anyone know where you get one of those limousine windows that's between the driver and the backseat? I'd like to get one installed in the minivan.

Monop-you-ly

Dad

Here's the problem with cleaning out the basement during daylight hours. Your kids wander down there to see what you're up to. When they see boxes full of stuff, they of course want to see what's in there, and then instantly think they need to get it out of the box, take it back upstairs, and make things messier than they were before you started cleaning in the first place. 

A couple of weeks ago, Curtis saw a box in the basement labeled "board games." He implored me to get it down and reveal the contents. They were all grownup games--Scattergories, Cranium, etc.--so I didn't think he'd be too interested. But one caught his attention. My most loathed game. Monolopy. (Or monop-you-ly, as Curtis calls it.)

"Dad, let's play." 

"Sorry, buddy," I said. "If we get that out while Tate's around, you know he'll destroy everything."

"Can we play it when he takes his nap?"

"Sounds like a great idea." It did sound like a great idea. (Because Tate hasn't started to grow out of taking naps, to Traci's endless chagrin.)

Every few days, Curtis would bring it up again. 

"Dad, let's play Monopoly."

"We will...during Tate's nap."

This actually worked for a couple of weeks. Until Curtis had finally had enough. 

"Dad, I want to play NOW. "

So I gave in. I thought he'd be bored by the time we got the game set up (which takes forever, one of the many things I hate about Monopoly). Nope. He loved it. (Even with the non-napping Tate destroying everything.) 

Now we have to play it every day, multiple times a day. 

From now on, I'm only cleaning the basement after the kids are asleep. 

If You Need Me, I'll be Sleeping in My Shed

"It'll take a Saturday." That's what the girl at the Lifetime store says when I ask how long it should take to assemble the shed I was about to purchase.

Before I let her swipe my credit card, I probably should have rephrased the question--"How long will it take me to assemble this shed?"

If she could have seen the future, she would have replied:

"It will take me 15 minutes, with the help of a forklift, to get the shed loaded in the back of the truck that you borrowed from your dad..."

"Your tailgate won't close, so you'll be nervous about driving home, so you won't take the freeway, and it will take you like an hour to get back home..."

"It will take you a couple of trips to Lowe's to buy wood and gravel to build a base for the shed (only to give in and just decide to put the stupid thing directly on the ground..."

"Then it'll finally be time for that "Saturday," so you'll have to invite your brother-in-law over to help you (he put his together all by himself in an evening)..."

"It will be going pretty well, but then he'll have to leave for his kid's football game..."

"And then your parents will come over to help. Your mom will see you taking pictures and threaten 'If you put this on your blog...'"

"The pieces will only almost-fit and it will be a hugely, hugely frustrating experience, but you'll get so close to being done...and then run out of daylight..."

"And then you'll have to wait until Monday and the last piece won't fit and you'll run out of daylight again..."

"And you won't be able to stop thinking about what in the world you're doing wrong..."

"And your brother-in-law will come over again and notice you forgot a piece from page 8 of the 150 million-page instruction book..."

"But he'll know how to fix stuff..."

"And you'll finally get it done..."

"And notice that it sure looks a lot smaller than you thought it'd be..."

But instead, the girl at the register says, "It'll take a Saturday."

And I fall for it.

Held For Ransom...By a Five-Year-Old

Curtis hates sleeping in his bed. Paige was sick the other night, so he jumped at the chance to sleep on the couch in the family room downstairs. (Who could blame him? He sleeps on the bottom bunk. I wouldn't want to be in Paige's splash zone, either.)

Now he doesn't want to go back upstairs.

Me: Curtis, you need to go back in your bed tonight.

Curtis: No.

I left it that.

Five minutes later...

Curtis: Do you know when I'm going to sleep in my bed again?

Me: When?

Curtis: Never.

Two minutes later...

Curtis: Do you know what you'd have to do to get me to sleep in my bed?

Me: What?

Curtis: Give me five dollars.

Me: [No response]

Curtis: And I want it in one dollars. Five of them. Or a dollar bill that's a five dollar bill.

Me: [Silence.]

Two minutes later...

Curtis: And I won't take coins. It's got to be dollars.

One minute later...

Curtis: And if you don't have dollars, I'll just take your wallet.

That's when I walked away.

I don't negotiate with terrorists.

I still have my five dollars.

Curtis is asleep on the couch downstairs.

Trip to Jurassic Park

For months, we'd planned to take our kids to Dinosaur Land over UEA weekend. There was just one problem. Dinosaur Land is technically called Dinosaur National Monument. And as we all know, our beloved Senator Mike Lee decided to close down all national parks in order to prove to President Obama that Americans shouldn't have healthcare coverage or access to fake dinosaurs. Or something like that.

Right after we officially decided to pull the plug on the trip, the government--and the park--reopened. But it was too late for us to turn back. Luckily, we had a backup plan.

Instead of driving three hours to Vernal and staying overnight, we just hopped in the car and drove 45 minutes to the Dinosaur Park in Ogden.

It was a perfect fall day for looking at giant dinosaur statues (surrounded by blowup Halloween decorations), digging for bones, and playing on the Jurassic playground.

And if that wasn't enough, we were able to eat dinner with our Dutch friends, the Koots, on our way home. They made us delicious pannekoeken. These Dutch pancakes are superior to the American kind because they can be filled with cheese, or apples, or ham, or whatever. Curtis topped his cheese pancake with dark chocolate syrup and whipped cream. I ate my ham pancake straight up. Dee-lish.

Sorry, Mike Lee. You can't hold the Sutherlands down.

Another Season of Soccer

I didn't mind coaching Curtis' soccer team last season. But since I'm still finding my place at New Job, I decided I'd just be a bystander this go round. 

It just didn't work out that way. 

"Organization night" (which is always highly disorganized) happens a couple of days before the first game of the season. The kids meet their coach and get their uniforms (the most important part of the entire season), and the parents pass around the treat sign-up sheet. 

When we showed up at organization night, we didn't see any coach or any uniforms, just a bunch of parents looking awkwardly at each other. After a few minutes, someone from the rec center came over and said, "Uh, are any of you the coach?" 

Silence.

"Yeah, we had a guy say he'd be the coach, but he's obviously not here. I've tried to call him like a hundred times and he never answers or calls me back. So does anyone else want to be the coach?"

Silence. 

Everyone looks awkwardly at the ground. Since I was the only dad there (not that it takes a dad to be a coach, just ask my own coach/mother), and one of the only folks that spoke English as a first language, I volunteered. 

Today was the last game of the season. Curtis had another good year. It was a little harder to score goals with actual goalies (there are no goalies in the Pre-K league), but he still managed to be quite the little Cristiano Ronaldo (just with more army rolling; Curtis spends more time diving and rolling than any kid on the field). 

Because it was the last game, I figured we needed some action shots. Traci was working today, so I had to sneak some shots while I was coaching. As I was running down the field with the team, I took. Curtis, the boy who hates pictures, was not amused. 

At this point he turned and said, "Dad, what are you doing?"

Every kid loves to be the goalie. Not only do you get to touch the ball with your hands, but you get to wear this cool dress.

I finally got a great action shot without Curtis noticing; but I blew it with my fat finger

i tried again, but Curtis was not having it

Maybe we'll have better luck with pictures next year.

The Best Part of General Conference

Young little families are supposed to make traditions, right? For the second straight year, we decided to spend the two hours between the Sunday sessions of General Conference walking around Silver Lake at Brighton. We figured it would be the perfect time to see the fall leaves in Big Cottonwood Canyon and also give us a chance to enjoy the mountains for the last time before winter.

Once again it was a minor disaster. 

Last year, we left sunny and warm Salt Lake City only to arrive at a Brighton that it was much colder than we had expected--or dressed for. But this year, we were ready. We got all bundled up and loaded into the van. 

Curt was upset about something to do with his gloves, so he screamed, whined, and cried the entire trip up the mountain. Once we got there, he was fine. And, as it turned out, we didn't need all the warm clothes anyway. The temperature was really nice, but there was quite a bit of snow on the ground. 

That was great news for Tate and Curtis, who were ecstatic about throwing snowballs. The only problem was that a warm day, combined with melting snow, equals a muddy mess. This was reason enough for Paige to be upset the entire time we were there.

Grumpy Paige, grumpy Curtis, muddy Tate (who couldn't manage to stay upright on the icy paths), and hungry parents made for a great trip. 

Disgruntled family time. An annual tradition.

Here are some pictures of us pretending to have a good time.

Curtis, refusing to smile

Tate was the happiest of the bunch

Paige, refusing to have any fun

Smile, Curtis. I'm gonna take a picture of us.

October Boys

Today Curtis and I worked on fielding ground balls for the first time. 

It's good to be a dad. 

We Raise Healthy Children

We've always had trouble with Paige and food. At any given time, there's only about three things that she's willing to eat. Usually it's nuggets, pizza (but only gross pizza Little Caesars or Totino's; I brought home The Pie the other day and she refused to eat it), and cottage cheese. But she's never had trouble with candy. 

This is her creation from our last trip to Yogurtland. Cheesecake yogurt, covered in gummy worms and Reese's Pieces. She ate every bite. 

We're good parents. 

First Trip to the Conference Center

For this year's regional conference, our stake was invited to the Conference Center. I took Paige and Curtis and Traci stayed home with monster Tate (or rather went to the stake center where he could do less damage). Our kids had never been inside before. They seemed to be impressed, first by the size of the auditorium and later, when Curtis conveniently needed to go by the bathroom, by the general echo-ey-ness of the halls.   

After we left, I asked Curtis, "So, what did you think of the Conference Center?"

"It was boring," he replied. 

It was kind of boring. But most educational experiences usually are. 

We stopped by the State Capitol after. They were much more impressed.

When we walked inside, Paige gasped," Wow, somebody really rich must live here."

Even Curtis enjoyed it.

Two Months of New Job + Can I Borrow a Spoon?

I've officially been at new job for just over two months now. Things are going well. I like the people I work with and I'm starting to find my way around--both literally and figuratively. I'm no longer getting lost on my way back to my car (but still sometimes on my way to different conference rooms around the building) and my job tasks are becoming more clear. But it's still hard. I still have no idea what I'm doing a good chunk of the time and I definitely miss my friends at Insurance.

Speaking of Insurance, I had lunch with the old crew a couple of weeks ago. I told them about some of the little things that are different about my new job.

Me: They have a lunch room, but no plates or utensils like they do here.

Them: So what do you do when you bring lunch from home?

Me: Well, you bring your own utensils. Which is fine. Unless you forget. Which I do.

Them: Hmm.

The next week, one of my Insurance friends came to lunch at my office. We ate in the break room.

Friend: [Dumping a pile of the plastic on the table] I brought you some utensils.

Me: Thank you.

We left the utensils on the table while we went to the microwave. When we came back, an unfamiliar coworker was waiting for us.

Coworker: Uh, hi. Um, I brought clam chowder for lunch today. But I...I...didn't bring a spoon.

Me: Do you need a spoon, my friend?

Coworker: Yes, please. Thank you. Thank you.

New job. Things are different.

McDonalds' Deepest Secret Revealed

We were at McDonalds when I overheard Paige telling Curtis something very important.

"Curtis, do you want to know what the secret ingredient in McDonalds' fries is?"

Curtis, intrigued, nodded his head.

 Paige leaned in close and whispered, "It's potatoes."

Curtis' eyes got big, and he responded, "Whoa."

Sorry, McDonalds. The code has been cracked.