(This is supposedly a true story.)

If you have children you will probably relate to this father.

As ham sandwiches go, it was perfection. A thick slab of ham, a
fresh bun, crisp lettuce and plenty of very expensive, light
brown, gourmet mustard.

The corners of my jaw aching in anticipation, I carried it to the
picnic table in our backyard, picked it up with both hands but was
stopped by my wife suddenly at my side. "Hold Johnny (our
six-week-old son) while I get my sandwich," she said.

I had him balanced between my left elbow and shoulder and was
reaching again for the ham sandwich when I noticed a streak of
mustard on my fingers.

I love mustard.

I had no napkin.

I licked it off.

It was not mustard.

No man ever put a baby down faster. It was the first and only time
I have sprinted with my tongue protruding. With a washcloth in
each hand I did the sort of routine shoeshine boys do, only I did it
on my tongue.

Later (after she stopped crying from laughing so hard) my wife
said, "Now you know why they call that mustard 'Poupon.'"