No Hooting

Our youngest is going through the “sound out every sign I see” phase. He points out signs as we drive around, doing his best to read them.

Last week, as we were leaving his school’s roller-skating party, the little guy called out “Look, Daddy! Look! It’s HOOT-ers.”

He pronounced it like it was two separate words – “hoot” and “ers” with a little space in the middle.  For those of you who don’t live in Florida, Hooters is a bar that features waitresses in tight t-shirts. 

I laughed. “Yep, that’s a restaurant.”

“Hoot-ers,” the little guy repeated. “That’s funny. It’s like an owl!”

“Can we go?” his older brother asked.

“No,” my wife answered.

“It’s not for kids,” I said. “It’s like a bar.”

“Hoot,” my youngest said. “Hoot! I’m a hoot-er!”

“Aww,” my oldest said.

“Your dad can take you when you’re twenty-one,” my wife said, clearly hoping to end the discussion.

“Really?” I asked.


Both the kids laughed.

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