We were hiking through a stretch of wilderness on the backside of Rainbow Springs, Florida, when my 8-year old son made a surprising announcement. “Daddy,” he said, “he doesn’t like your hot dogs.”

His older brother stopped in his tracks, a look of honest outrage on his face. “What?”

“Well, you don’t.”

“I can’t believe you just said that!”

Looking at the two of them, I could tell a confidence had just been betrayed. A weird confidence, but a confidence, nonetheless. “That’s okay,” I said. “You don’t have to like my hot dogs.”

“I do too like your hot dogs!”

“It’s okay,” I said. “You don’t have to.” I laughed. “They’re just hot dogs.”

At this rate, though, I am rapidly running out of things I can cook.

As I turned to keep hiking, I heard a good solid thud followed by an “ow!” and a “Da-addy!”

“It’s okay,” I interrupted before the little guy could tell on his brother. “He doesn’t have to like my hot dogs.”

“But he-”

“Come on. Let’s keep moving. We stay in one place too long and the mosquitoes will carry us away.”

The little guy sighed. His big brother gave a satisfied chuckle, and we continued on our walk.

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