Walking through the neighborhood tonight, trick or treating with Sport, I've been thinking how parenting is a bit like trick or treating. When you trick or treat, you approach a house with no idea about who is at the door or what you'll receive. How many times have you rung the bell and waited patiently, only to find that no one answers? Or, the person comes to the door and hands you a tiny, hard peppermint candy, the kind that old ladies carry in their purses.
Just like that uncertainty at the door, no matter how you got your children, whether by birth or adoption, you really have no idea what you're getting until you've got it. You are hopeful, of course, like when you walk up to a house that has a porch light on and is decorated with pumpkins. Ultimately, there are no guarantees that a full-size chocolate candy bar will be tossed into your waiting bucket. We do what we can to better the odds. We trick or treat in affluent neighborhoods, or those with houses close together, or with lots of children. And in parenting, we love our children and provide them with what we believe increases the odds that they will grow into successful adults.
Just like our Halloween experiences change from year to year, as people become more or less involved or invested in handing out candy to costumed children, our children change and grow, some years find them pleasant and cooperative and other years find the same children disagreeable and defiant.
Walking around, Sport and I pass fairy princesses, villains, and superheroes. From door to door, I hear the familiar refrain, "trick or treat" and I marvel at the bravery of parents, who traverse the adventure of parenthood, filled with optimism, hope and good intentions.
Monday, October 31, 2011
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
An Example of Irony
Secret Service has been studying the concept of irony in English class. Although you know irony when you see it, it is a difficult concept to define. We've been talking (I talk, he rolls his eyes) about how an unexpected outcome can make a situation ironic. Secret had an assignment to write an ironic story using cartoon panels and couldn't think of anything to write about when we went to the doctors office last week.
It turns out, excellent mother that I am, that Secret had missed his "well child" check-up, which was due in June. Now, faced with a form that needed to be filled out by a doctor for Secret to play school sports, I made an appointment for him and always striving to be on top of things, included Sport for his annual check up.
On the drive over, Secret performed his big brother duties, as outlined in the manual, by tormenting Sport, telling him that at a 10 year old check-up, he believed Sport would get 3 immunizations, or as we call them, "shots." No one wants to hear that. I kept interrupting, reassuring Sport that we didn't know if that was the case, reminding him that his brother was a fountain of misinformation.
When the doctor joined us in the exam room, he reviewed their records and proclaimed that at 10, there are no shots due. Sport was exuberant. Then, the doctor made another proclamation. At Secrets' 14 year old check-up, two shots were due! Secret looked surprised and when the doctor left the room, he made a last ditch effort to negotiate with me. I stood firm. After Secret had received the shots, I commented that it was ironic that he'd teased his brother and then been the one to get the shots. I said the good news is that now he has an idea for an ironic story. Secret agreed.
It turns out, excellent mother that I am, that Secret had missed his "well child" check-up, which was due in June. Now, faced with a form that needed to be filled out by a doctor for Secret to play school sports, I made an appointment for him and always striving to be on top of things, included Sport for his annual check up.
On the drive over, Secret performed his big brother duties, as outlined in the manual, by tormenting Sport, telling him that at a 10 year old check-up, he believed Sport would get 3 immunizations, or as we call them, "shots." No one wants to hear that. I kept interrupting, reassuring Sport that we didn't know if that was the case, reminding him that his brother was a fountain of misinformation.
When the doctor joined us in the exam room, he reviewed their records and proclaimed that at 10, there are no shots due. Sport was exuberant. Then, the doctor made another proclamation. At Secrets' 14 year old check-up, two shots were due! Secret looked surprised and when the doctor left the room, he made a last ditch effort to negotiate with me. I stood firm. After Secret had received the shots, I commented that it was ironic that he'd teased his brother and then been the one to get the shots. I said the good news is that now he has an idea for an ironic story. Secret agreed.
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Cell Phones and Ravioli
Thursday dinner time found me bustling around the kitchen, making ravioli for dinner. I was effectively multi-tasking, making sauce for the pasta, stirring the pot of boiling ravioli, getting the house organized for me to walk out the door to go to work. Science Girl phoned to update me on her estimated time of arrival. I tucked my cell phone in the crook of my neck, continuing to talk to her as I poured the ravioli into the colander. Just then, disaster! The phone slid into the colander and I couldn't react fast enough. The boiling water spilled on top of it. Pandemonium ensued as I fished the phone out, knocking most of the ravioli out of the colander and into the sink. The phone was hot, wet and dead.
I took the cover off and held it gently, the ravioli forgotten as I tenderly pushed buttons, trying to get a response. At work that night, several people told me encouraging stories of phones revived by sitting for 24 hours completely submerged in a bowl of uncooked rice. When I got home, I lovingly placed the phone in a bowl of rice, said a prayer and left it for the required time. Twenty four hours later, Secret Service and I checked, found that the phone would turn on but that the resolution was problematic, the screen too dark to read. Cradling the phone like a sick child, the boys and I proceeded to the phone store. When we got there, the salesperson examined the phone, listened to my tale, shook his head and said they couldn't save it.
Then, the details unfolded. I couldn't replace my phone with the exact same model, I'd need to get an upgraded model. They could however, transfer my contacts and photos to another phone. I panicked. I hadn't even thought about the photos. I had over 250 photos on the phone, photos that I had never "backed up" on to a computer or printed as a picture. Then I started to sweat. How much was this going to cost? I felt my knees buckle. I told the salesperson I'd need to think. Secret Service and I moved to the only bench in the store. I was stricken.
Secret offered a solution. A technology buff, he'd been salivating over the new cell phone model and he said he'd buy the new phone and I could take over his phone. We went to work out the details with the salesperson. My phone number could be transferred to Secrets' phone, his number could be placed on the new phone. It all was working out until little Sport came over to the counter to check in with us. Sport has been on an active campaign for a phone since he was 7. For years, he has watched peers open presents containing phones at birthday parties, watched classmates make calls, when was it going to be his turn? Now, he stood, incredulous, as his older brother upgraded to a spiffy new phone while he still had no phone.
The next day, the whole family returned to the phone store where Sport picked out a phone, getting his Chanukah gift early.
Final total - two new phones, two new covers (because of course the new phone isn't made to fit inside the old cover), two activation fees, two "skins" to protect the phone's screen, and $10 a month (for 24 months) to add Sport to our family plan.
That was one expensive bowl of ravioli.
I took the cover off and held it gently, the ravioli forgotten as I tenderly pushed buttons, trying to get a response. At work that night, several people told me encouraging stories of phones revived by sitting for 24 hours completely submerged in a bowl of uncooked rice. When I got home, I lovingly placed the phone in a bowl of rice, said a prayer and left it for the required time. Twenty four hours later, Secret Service and I checked, found that the phone would turn on but that the resolution was problematic, the screen too dark to read. Cradling the phone like a sick child, the boys and I proceeded to the phone store. When we got there, the salesperson examined the phone, listened to my tale, shook his head and said they couldn't save it.
Then, the details unfolded. I couldn't replace my phone with the exact same model, I'd need to get an upgraded model. They could however, transfer my contacts and photos to another phone. I panicked. I hadn't even thought about the photos. I had over 250 photos on the phone, photos that I had never "backed up" on to a computer or printed as a picture. Then I started to sweat. How much was this going to cost? I felt my knees buckle. I told the salesperson I'd need to think. Secret Service and I moved to the only bench in the store. I was stricken.
Secret offered a solution. A technology buff, he'd been salivating over the new cell phone model and he said he'd buy the new phone and I could take over his phone. We went to work out the details with the salesperson. My phone number could be transferred to Secrets' phone, his number could be placed on the new phone. It all was working out until little Sport came over to the counter to check in with us. Sport has been on an active campaign for a phone since he was 7. For years, he has watched peers open presents containing phones at birthday parties, watched classmates make calls, when was it going to be his turn? Now, he stood, incredulous, as his older brother upgraded to a spiffy new phone while he still had no phone.
The next day, the whole family returned to the phone store where Sport picked out a phone, getting his Chanukah gift early.
Final total - two new phones, two new covers (because of course the new phone isn't made to fit inside the old cover), two activation fees, two "skins" to protect the phone's screen, and $10 a month (for 24 months) to add Sport to our family plan.
That was one expensive bowl of ravioli.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Imaginative Play?
I encourage the boys to participate in imaginative play but their imaginations usually result in things careening out of control in one of two ways - someone gets hurt and cries or the house gets messed up. Here's how it's shaking out lately.
Recently, Sport has made several complaints that Secret Service has squirted water on him. Sport has tears (or water droplets) in his eyes and has pointed to the places that are wet. When questioned, Secret has the following defenses - #1 - "I didn't do it." (Always a good place to start.) Next - #2 - "I don't see any water." Then, while laughing - #3 - "He did it first." (Sport, starting to laugh, vehemently denies this.)
Last weekend, the boys told me they were going to play in the loft. First, they set up chairs to resemble the interior of a bus and watched a part of a game that showed people riding a city bus. Then, they moved the seats around to look like they were in an airplane. Secret set himself up in the "cockpit," using a simulator on the computer to "fly." Sport sat behind him, lounging in what appeared to be first class (lots of legroom) while watching a DVD and drinking ice water. (I have cracked down on no food or beverage outside of the kitchen.) In the spacious seat beside him sat a stuffed animal, a Husky dog, perched cheerfully for the excursion.
There's a sticky note on the wall near the loft that says, "Motel Bus - Please Use Other Door." It has an arrow that points to the bedrooms. Closer to the bedrooms is a sticky note that says, "Next Departure - 7:35, 7:50, 8:15." This game seems to have spread throughout the house because in the office, I found an old computer case filled with a hockey jersey. Next to it, an envelope with handwritten information about a flight from Los Angeles to Denver on United. In the envelope, my old VISA bankcard and Sport's school ID from two years ago.
I think it is imaginative play and not a well-planned runaway to join a National League Hockey team. I am slightly suspicious, however. Sport is on a vigorous campaign to have a house key. I might need to look into this further.
Recently, Sport has made several complaints that Secret Service has squirted water on him. Sport has tears (or water droplets) in his eyes and has pointed to the places that are wet. When questioned, Secret has the following defenses - #1 - "I didn't do it." (Always a good place to start.) Next - #2 - "I don't see any water." Then, while laughing - #3 - "He did it first." (Sport, starting to laugh, vehemently denies this.)
Last weekend, the boys told me they were going to play in the loft. First, they set up chairs to resemble the interior of a bus and watched a part of a game that showed people riding a city bus. Then, they moved the seats around to look like they were in an airplane. Secret set himself up in the "cockpit," using a simulator on the computer to "fly." Sport sat behind him, lounging in what appeared to be first class (lots of legroom) while watching a DVD and drinking ice water. (I have cracked down on no food or beverage outside of the kitchen.) In the spacious seat beside him sat a stuffed animal, a Husky dog, perched cheerfully for the excursion.
There's a sticky note on the wall near the loft that says, "Motel Bus - Please Use Other Door." It has an arrow that points to the bedrooms. Closer to the bedrooms is a sticky note that says, "Next Departure - 7:35, 7:50, 8:15." This game seems to have spread throughout the house because in the office, I found an old computer case filled with a hockey jersey. Next to it, an envelope with handwritten information about a flight from Los Angeles to Denver on United. In the envelope, my old VISA bankcard and Sport's school ID from two years ago.
I think it is imaginative play and not a well-planned runaway to join a National League Hockey team. I am slightly suspicious, however. Sport is on a vigorous campaign to have a house key. I might need to look into this further.
Friday, October 14, 2011
Cotillion
These past two Sundays, Sport put aside his mud-caked cleats and got spiffed up to join about a hundred other fourth and fifth graders in their quest to learn (as the Cotillion brochure states) "contemporary etiquette skills." The experience supposedly helps students develop communication, socialization and dance skills. I don't think good manners ever go out of style and I wanted Sport to have this opportunity, but even I wonder when and where he'll use these new skills.
We'd purchased a black pinstripe suit for Sport last year and with the hem taken down on the pants and a deep inhale while zipping up, Sport was able to get in it again. The first week, he selected a striped tie to go with the outfit. When I took him to the class, I was struck by how wonderful all the little girls looked in their brightly colored party dresses, pumps with little heels and white gloves. The second week, Sport inquired about wearing a bow tie, saying he'd never worn one and wanted to. Luckily, while on an unrelated errand, I discovered one for $5 and snapped it up. He was thrilled and went off for his second class looking very much like a waiter.
Sport shares his progress with us each week.. He's learned the proper way to ask a young lady to dance. He's learned the Fox Trot, Waltz, and Cha Cha. He also did a reenactment of how to present your date with a cup of punch. Happily, he did not spill any on the beautifully dressed girls.
I remember being taught to waltz in fourth grade. At that point, I was among the tallest girls in the class and spent every dance session trying to get Ralph Bromborsky, one of the tallest boys, to be my dance partner. Although I think I managed to have us dance together a time or two, we never took off as a couple. I lost sight of Ralph as we moved into Junior High school, but held on to that image of myself as a tall girl long after my slower growing peers climbed above me and what had seemed tall in fourth grade became average height by eighth grade.
Standing on line to check Sport in at the Cotillion, I noted that he was among the taller of the children. When I leaned down to tell him good-bye, I whispered, "Ask a tall girl to dance." He didn't understand, but he promised he would.
We'd purchased a black pinstripe suit for Sport last year and with the hem taken down on the pants and a deep inhale while zipping up, Sport was able to get in it again. The first week, he selected a striped tie to go with the outfit. When I took him to the class, I was struck by how wonderful all the little girls looked in their brightly colored party dresses, pumps with little heels and white gloves. The second week, Sport inquired about wearing a bow tie, saying he'd never worn one and wanted to. Luckily, while on an unrelated errand, I discovered one for $5 and snapped it up. He was thrilled and went off for his second class looking very much like a waiter.
Sport shares his progress with us each week.. He's learned the proper way to ask a young lady to dance. He's learned the Fox Trot, Waltz, and Cha Cha. He also did a reenactment of how to present your date with a cup of punch. Happily, he did not spill any on the beautifully dressed girls.
I remember being taught to waltz in fourth grade. At that point, I was among the tallest girls in the class and spent every dance session trying to get Ralph Bromborsky, one of the tallest boys, to be my dance partner. Although I think I managed to have us dance together a time or two, we never took off as a couple. I lost sight of Ralph as we moved into Junior High school, but held on to that image of myself as a tall girl long after my slower growing peers climbed above me and what had seemed tall in fourth grade became average height by eighth grade.
Standing on line to check Sport in at the Cotillion, I noted that he was among the taller of the children. When I leaned down to tell him good-bye, I whispered, "Ask a tall girl to dance." He didn't understand, but he promised he would.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Anniversary
Twenty years ago today, Science Girl and I had a small commitment ceremony in a friends backyard. We wanted an opportunity to stand before people we cared about, pledge our commitment to each other and to have these same people validate and support us by witnessing this event. This sort of thing wasn't commonplace in Oklahoma twenty years ago and even though we were having the ceremony, we were afraid that there could be some sort of backlash. I was worried enough that I wrote invitations and handed them to people personally without putting our names on them. We exchanged rings but chose to wear them on our right hands to minimize questions about the significance of the rings. We hired a seamstress to make us beautiful matching pantsuits and when she inquired about the occasion, we said we were bridesmaids, not brides.
Twenty years. A lot has changed in the world. In our current community of Denver, Colorado, it feels pretty safe to be part of a same sex couple and we've gotten pretty comfortable being out. The kids have helped that along. One or two people might be able to fit in a closet but stuffing a family of four in there wouldn't be easy. Even our boys friends seem comfortable with us and seldom seem confused to find a family with two moms. There was the time when Secret Service was in 1st grade. He had a new friend over, and I mentioned that Secret had two moms. The little boy looked surprised, then suspicious. "Are you sure one of you isn't the Nanny?" he asked.
Same sex marriage is not legal in Colorado, so to celebrate this milestone anniversary, Science Girl and I contemplated traveling to a state where it is legal and tying the knot. I thought maybe it was important for our children to see our commitment, to know we were legally wed. When I asked them, Sport responded with enthusiasm, never one to pass up a party, he said he'd like to be the ring bearer and the DJ. Secret Service said he already considered us married.
We do, too.
Twenty years. A lot has changed in the world. In our current community of Denver, Colorado, it feels pretty safe to be part of a same sex couple and we've gotten pretty comfortable being out. The kids have helped that along. One or two people might be able to fit in a closet but stuffing a family of four in there wouldn't be easy. Even our boys friends seem comfortable with us and seldom seem confused to find a family with two moms. There was the time when Secret Service was in 1st grade. He had a new friend over, and I mentioned that Secret had two moms. The little boy looked surprised, then suspicious. "Are you sure one of you isn't the Nanny?" he asked.
Same sex marriage is not legal in Colorado, so to celebrate this milestone anniversary, Science Girl and I contemplated traveling to a state where it is legal and tying the knot. I thought maybe it was important for our children to see our commitment, to know we were legally wed. When I asked them, Sport responded with enthusiasm, never one to pass up a party, he said he'd like to be the ring bearer and the DJ. Secret Service said he already considered us married.
We do, too.
Monday, October 10, 2011
Listening Skills
The other day, while driving Secret Service home from school, I was asking my usual questions about his day. Secret participated briefly, but informatively, actually pulling a grading score sheet from his backpack and reading me the teacher's comments.
Depleted by that soul rendering intimacy, Secret inserted ear buds. I'm pretty sure he thought that what was coming next was a lecture about studying, working hard at school, or better yet, a reminder about picking up his room when he arrived home, or emptying the dishwasher. Driving, with no one to chat with, I reflected on how difficult it is to get my kids to hear me. The ear pieces are just the latest in an arsenal of methods to tune their parents out.
Science Girl and I always joke that Secret has "selective bionic hearing." When we talk to him, he appears not to have heard us. When we talk about him, he has an uncanny ability to hear us. When we talk about something that is none of his business, he seems able to hear us through walls. On occasion, I have looked to see if he has the room bugged.
Sadly, Sport is afflicted with the same type of situational deafness as his brother. Our family dog does a better job of responding to his name than Sport does. But, when I am honest with myself, I have to admit that I'm guilty of the same. As much as I wanted to be a Mom, there are days when I think my ears will bleed if I hear "Mommy" one more time. There are times when I hear "Mommy" and I pretend that I heard the kids say, "Mama" (Science Girl's handle) so that she is the one who has to go see what's up and I can try to stay blissfully unaware.
And, since I'm confessing, I'll admit that sometimes when they ask for something that they can't have, I act like I don't hear them because to hear them and say no just starts an argument. And sometimes, one of them is talking, sharing something, and I'm too busy or pre-occupied to listen or I cut them off to remind them to do a chore.
Saturday was the Jewish holiday, Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, a day to reflect on our errors and shortcomings in the past year and think about how we might do things differently in the coming year. I've been thinking about it and I'm going to try to listen more. Maybe the kids will, too.
Depleted by that soul rendering intimacy, Secret inserted ear buds. I'm pretty sure he thought that what was coming next was a lecture about studying, working hard at school, or better yet, a reminder about picking up his room when he arrived home, or emptying the dishwasher. Driving, with no one to chat with, I reflected on how difficult it is to get my kids to hear me. The ear pieces are just the latest in an arsenal of methods to tune their parents out.
Science Girl and I always joke that Secret has "selective bionic hearing." When we talk to him, he appears not to have heard us. When we talk about him, he has an uncanny ability to hear us. When we talk about something that is none of his business, he seems able to hear us through walls. On occasion, I have looked to see if he has the room bugged.
Sadly, Sport is afflicted with the same type of situational deafness as his brother. Our family dog does a better job of responding to his name than Sport does. But, when I am honest with myself, I have to admit that I'm guilty of the same. As much as I wanted to be a Mom, there are days when I think my ears will bleed if I hear "Mommy" one more time. There are times when I hear "Mommy" and I pretend that I heard the kids say, "Mama" (Science Girl's handle) so that she is the one who has to go see what's up and I can try to stay blissfully unaware.
And, since I'm confessing, I'll admit that sometimes when they ask for something that they can't have, I act like I don't hear them because to hear them and say no just starts an argument. And sometimes, one of them is talking, sharing something, and I'm too busy or pre-occupied to listen or I cut them off to remind them to do a chore.
Saturday was the Jewish holiday, Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, a day to reflect on our errors and shortcomings in the past year and think about how we might do things differently in the coming year. I've been thinking about it and I'm going to try to listen more. Maybe the kids will, too.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Grocery Store
Last night, after dinner, Science Girl initiated a trip to the grocery store, saying she needed to purchase cayenne pepper. It seems that Science Girl had carefully planted flower bulbs in very precise rows, only to realize that rabbits were undoing and disrupting her design. Her gardening buddies had instructed her to spread cayenne pepper on top of the bulbs she'd planted, saying this would keep the rabbits away.
Science Girl looked surprised when I announced we would all accompany her. I thought it would be a good time to get the boys to each fill a bag of food items to donate to the food bank, a project our synagogue does every year. And, I wanted Secret Service to find something that he'd be willing to eat for lunch at school.
When we arrived at the store, Secret Service claimed he was thirsty and asked to buy a soda. I said no. Sport asked for candy. I said no. I reminded them why we'd come to the store. Secret Service shrugged and said he didn't have an opinion on what to buy for the food bank. He wandered off, presumably to shop for something that he could take to school for lunch. Sport enthusiastically suggested we buy sushi for the food bank. Even though we'd talked about this in the car on the way to the store, I re-explained the concept of a pantry and of needing to select food with a shelf life.
Sport and I walked to the cereal aisle. I told him to pick a cereal for the food bank using one of the coupons I had. Sport said he didn't like any of those cereals. I explained again that these cereals weren't for us. As we were finalizing our selections, Secret Service re-appeared, holding a box of pretzels, saying these would make a good lunch. I said no. Secret Service and Sport started to shove each other and then ran off, chasing each other.
I meandered over to the bean aisle. A minute later, Sport ran up, sweating, panting, and looking over his shoulder. I said, "Pick two bags of beans, the ones for $.99." Quickly, Sport grabbed one bag of kidney beans, threw it in the cart and then, still looking over his shoulder, darted off. Meanwhile, Secret Service came back around, nothing in his hands, claiming he couldn't find anything that he'd want to eat for lunch.
I found Science Girl, perusing the spices. Breathless, Sport appeared, inquired about the cayenne, protested, saying that the cayenne was a bad idea because small children in the neighborhood liked to dig in our garden and then lick their hands. I eyed him, suspiciously. I said, "I've never seen any small children in our garden. I have seen you in there." Just then, Secret Service approached and Sport, a big smile on this face, attempted to trip Secret Service. They started to punch each other.
The grown ups separated the boys and then to divide and conquer, Science Girl went with Secret Service into the deli department to find something for his lunch. I took Sport in a different direction, the pasta aisle, where he chose packages of spaghetti for our food bank donation. Sport had a lot of other ideas too, insisting that watermelon would be a great addition to the items for the food bank. Eventually, with Science Girl's help, Secret Service agreed to some roast beef. However, he explained that he'd rather buy his lunch at the restaurants around his school and didn't understand why we wouldn't give him more than $10 a week to do so. I explained I'd like to eat my lunch out every day too, but it was just too expensive. Secret Service became engrossed in a rack of gift cards and Sport was admiring the watermelons. I selected the rest of the items for the food bank.
On the way home, everyone was quiet, thinking their own thoughts about gift cards, watermelon, cayenne pepper and the like. Another successful shopping trip.
Science Girl looked surprised when I announced we would all accompany her. I thought it would be a good time to get the boys to each fill a bag of food items to donate to the food bank, a project our synagogue does every year. And, I wanted Secret Service to find something that he'd be willing to eat for lunch at school.
When we arrived at the store, Secret Service claimed he was thirsty and asked to buy a soda. I said no. Sport asked for candy. I said no. I reminded them why we'd come to the store. Secret Service shrugged and said he didn't have an opinion on what to buy for the food bank. He wandered off, presumably to shop for something that he could take to school for lunch. Sport enthusiastically suggested we buy sushi for the food bank. Even though we'd talked about this in the car on the way to the store, I re-explained the concept of a pantry and of needing to select food with a shelf life.
Sport and I walked to the cereal aisle. I told him to pick a cereal for the food bank using one of the coupons I had. Sport said he didn't like any of those cereals. I explained again that these cereals weren't for us. As we were finalizing our selections, Secret Service re-appeared, holding a box of pretzels, saying these would make a good lunch. I said no. Secret Service and Sport started to shove each other and then ran off, chasing each other.
I meandered over to the bean aisle. A minute later, Sport ran up, sweating, panting, and looking over his shoulder. I said, "Pick two bags of beans, the ones for $.99." Quickly, Sport grabbed one bag of kidney beans, threw it in the cart and then, still looking over his shoulder, darted off. Meanwhile, Secret Service came back around, nothing in his hands, claiming he couldn't find anything that he'd want to eat for lunch.
I found Science Girl, perusing the spices. Breathless, Sport appeared, inquired about the cayenne, protested, saying that the cayenne was a bad idea because small children in the neighborhood liked to dig in our garden and then lick their hands. I eyed him, suspiciously. I said, "I've never seen any small children in our garden. I have seen you in there." Just then, Secret Service approached and Sport, a big smile on this face, attempted to trip Secret Service. They started to punch each other.
The grown ups separated the boys and then to divide and conquer, Science Girl went with Secret Service into the deli department to find something for his lunch. I took Sport in a different direction, the pasta aisle, where he chose packages of spaghetti for our food bank donation. Sport had a lot of other ideas too, insisting that watermelon would be a great addition to the items for the food bank. Eventually, with Science Girl's help, Secret Service agreed to some roast beef. However, he explained that he'd rather buy his lunch at the restaurants around his school and didn't understand why we wouldn't give him more than $10 a week to do so. I explained I'd like to eat my lunch out every day too, but it was just too expensive. Secret Service became engrossed in a rack of gift cards and Sport was admiring the watermelons. I selected the rest of the items for the food bank.
On the way home, everyone was quiet, thinking their own thoughts about gift cards, watermelon, cayenne pepper and the like. Another successful shopping trip.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)