The Hunter and the Vegan

This week I got to cross one of the "difficult conversations topics" off my list of parental duties, and Toby MAY just declare himself a vegetarian one day as a result of it.  Without any preparation or forethought, I taught Toby about hunting.

We were driving to school yesterday, down beautiful, windy, natural, Pretty River Parkway, when a hoard of hunters emerged from the woods in full camouflage gear with rifles and dead carcasses on their shoulder.

Ok FINE, there were no dead carcasses (as far as I could tell) but by rifles I mean BIG REAL GUNS that scared the crap out of me AND Toby.

It took him a bit to digest what he’d seen and we were all the way to the 10^th concession before he quietly acknowledged them.

“Mom…” he asked tentatively, “Were those ARMY men?”

“No, “ I replied hastily without thinking, “those were just hunters, Toby.”

As soon as the words left my MOUTH I knew I had opened up a can of worms.  Why couldn’t I have just let them be army men? !?!

The inevitable question ensued, “What are hunters, Mommy?”

And I decided right then and there, without input from my spouse, the Huffington post OR premeditated contemplation, that it was time that Toby learned about the food chain and the circle of life.

It was a question and information filled drive to school that day, LET ME TELL YOU. I explained to him as casually and naturally as I could put it that eating animals was natural and a way of life and that MOST of the animals we eat are raised for that purpose.  (I left out the fact that I had gone on a vegetarian hunger strike in grade 10, volunteered for PETA and obsessively wore an oversized shirt with a picture of a cow on the front that read, “Now I can look at you in peace; I don’t eat you anymore.”)  I told him that despite it being natural, some people don’t like it and choose to be vegetarians and that’s their choice.

Toby listened attentively,with an eerie silence I know to be a warning sign of great questions to come.

The first few questions were easy, “Did we eat LIONS?” 

No

“Gazelles?”

No

“Wildebeest?”

(Can you tell we are reading a book about Africa right now?)

“Do Vegetarians ONLY eat vegetables?”

(Tempting as it was, I clarified that they also eat beans, rice and fruits as the 15-year-old version of myself CRINGED as I oversimplified and diminished her numerous rants from the past…)

And then came the DIFFICULT questions. Everything from “I wish we didn’t have to hurt animals…” to “How are they killed ‘NICELY’?  I thought it wasn’t nice to kill anything” to “But how do we MAKE them into FOOD?”

Finally our conversation came to an end as we arrived at school.  I THOUGHT I was off the hook until exactly 24 hours later; as we rounded the bend on Pretty River Parkways this morning, there was not a hunter to be seen but the memory of yesterday’s SHOCKING conversation clearly resurfaced and Toby grew, once again, very quiet and contemplative.

I gave him his space to think and finally a confused and bemoaned groan escaped his lips as he desperately asked me about his very favourite meal “Mommy….are FAJITAS an animal?”

Obvious Speak

Do you ever find yourself saying something to your children that is SO ridiculously OBVIOUS it seem ludicrous to actually have to say the words out loud?  Statements like, “Mia, Toby doesn’t like it when you pull his hair” or “In our house, Mia, we don’t touch our pooh” come out smoothly and without a second thought, but every now and then I CATCH myself uttering the ridiculously obvious and I think to myself, “WHAT am I SAYING?  And WHY does it need to be said?!?!”   If this new habit of mine somehow transferred to my work environment I would walk into every exam room, smile and state, “Why hello, Mr. Smith, you are wearing a yellow shirt and jeans today!”  My patients would think I was bat shit crazy.   Today, I began to think so myself.

It started with a 10-minute car ride. TEN MINUTES.  What could possibly go wrong?  

HA!

I was dropping Toby at a birthday party and I had this sudden flash of desire to be the best wife in the world and offered to TAKE Mia with me for the car ride so Rob could enjoy TWENTY MINUTES of uninterrupted, childfree peace in the MIDDLE of a Sunday morning.

What did he ever do to deserve that?

(I suppose it lost its integrity when I returned home 20 minutes later; both of us a screaming hot mess.)

The ride there was fine, it was on the way back that Mia started to whine and then moan and then fling herself back and forth in her car seat in fits of unexplained rage.  Obvious sentence #! :  “Is something wrong, Mia?” I asked.  DUH the kids was flailing every limb that she had while rocking her head back and forth and wailing.  She MIGHT have also been foaming at the mouth but I couldn’t see for sure because I was driving and her head movements were THAT fast.

She couldn’t quite pinpoint what EXACTLY the problem was.  She started with saying she was hungry.  When I told her we were now 9 minutes from home and would have lunch when we got there she changed her tactic and decided that maybe she was tired.  I told her she could skip lunch and go to bed.  That didn’t go over well.    Needless to say.

So then she wanted a movie.  (We don’t watch movies in the car unless we are going on a long drive).  She KNEW the answer to that one before she asked it but I think she just needed SOMETHING that merited the cathartic limb shaking.

My refusal gave her room to escalate but we were still 8 minutes from home and she doesn’t have quite the attention span to be THAT upset about one SINGLE THING for that monstrosity of a time frame.  So she change found another reason for her affliction, through her blood curdling screams, I heard emerge the request for a book.

Mia has about 10 books sitting beside her in the back seat for moments EXACTLY like this one.  It would be WAY too much to expect her to reach over the arm width distance to get one for herself, so I stealthily reached around behind the seat, grabbed the top book and handed it to her.

“MIA NO WANT A BOOK!!!!!”

She caterwauled at me before throwing it at my head.

Obvious sentence #2: “Mia, please don’t throw books at Mommy’ s head while she’s driving” came out as calmly as a serenity prayer.

“MIA WANT A BOOK!”  Was her reply.

Repeat cycle.

After being hit in the head 3 times I decided that it was time to resign myself to a loud drive home.  There was NO STOPPING irrational Mia.

My second scenario of the day came after the much needed (but alas, yet still not quite long enough nap).  She woke up bright eyed, cheerful and ready to face the second half of the day. I offered her a snack, which she loved, and then suggested we go outside.  Mia ALWAYS wants to go outside.  She was off her stool and at the door before I had to ask twice.

But alas, then came the part when I tried to put her socks on.

Irrational Mia from the car started to rear hrt ugly head as soon as I held up those darned socks.

“Mia no like those blue sock.”  She informed me both sternly and calmly.

“Well, Mia,” I said (obvious statement #3) "You can’t go outside without your boots and socks on.”

“Mia no LIKE those BLUE SOCKS.” I was informed again with a bit more determination and a pinch of cra-cra to boot.

I suggested maybe she’d like to go to her room and pick out a different coloured pair?

And with that, seemingly reasonable suggestion, the limb flailing, head shaking, tear producing fit started all over again until I could finally reiterate obvious statement #3 again to her.  It was quite simple, really; we actually could NOT go outside without socks or shoes.

“But Mia WANT TO GO OUTSIDE” came the wail that sent snot pouring in all directions.

“Then put your socks on!” I said naively.

And so the cycle repeated itself.

 By the time Toby and Rob came home from soccer – ONE FULL HOUR LATER – we were still there, sitting on opposite sides of the front hall, a pair of blue socks and an empty tissue box between us.

Obvious statement #4 answered my husband’s questioning stare,

“Mia didn’t want to put her socks on…”

A Trip to The Hall of Fame

This weekend I was presented with the opportunity to take my dad and my son for an impromptu trip to the Hockey Hall of Fame in Toronto.

My dad used to scout for the NY Islanders and was part of the team in the early 80s when the Islanders went on a winning streak and won 4 stanley cups in a row.  My dad’s name is on the cup which is on display at the Hockey Hall of Fame.  There has also always been a rumour that my dad’s photo and/or name was displayed elsewhere in the hall of fame but, my mom being the non-sporty person that she is, we have yet to take a family trip down to actually check it out.

I was SO excited that Rob is taking his class to Toronto and to the Hockey Hall of Fame and even MORE excited when I heard that he needed to go there first to scope it out.  Would I be interested in going?  Sure thing…as long as he didn’t mind me bringing the kid and the dad with us.

In my head it SOUNDED like a stress free, nostalgic and exciting adventure for the 4 of us to embark on.  The hardest part, however, involved getting us all OUT of the house and THERE.

Parking down there is an expensive and logistical nightmare.  Taking my dad on the TTC is equally as daunting.  Trying to fit all of us (and Mia) into my mom’s car for her to drive us all down is next to impossible.  It took 4 adults, 2 iphone apps, a phone call and several checks of various websites before finally we determined that there would be a bus at the bottom of our street for Rob and Toby to take arriving in 7 min, and Mom and Mia would chauffeur dad and me down there separately.

Then came the part where we had to get them out of the house.

Leaving with Toby went something like this:

“Come on, Toby it’s time to go!” says adult A

“WHY!?!?!?” said in an irritatingly whiny voice “Where are we GO-ING?!?”

Adult A explains exciting outing ahead then attempts to hand Toby his coat.

“Where’s my HAT?” the whining continued. “Do I HAVE to wear my gloves?”

We finally have whiny 5 year old dressed when he announces every parent’s favourite line,

“I have to pee.”

Clothes are removed, Toby is hastily escorted to the washroom and casually reminded that the bus is arriving in TWO MINUTES.  (he doesn’t care)

Finally we get Rob and Toby out of the house only to receive a text 15 min later informing us that our ingenious bus tracking iphone app is completely off.  (WAS there even a bus that comes to the bottom of my parents’ street?)

Meanwhile, back at the house, mom and I set about getting my dad ready to go.

 Leaving with my Dad went something like this:

“Come on, Dad it’s time to go!” says adult B

“WHY!?!?!?” said in an irritatingly whiny voice “Where are we GO-ING?!?”

Adult B explains exciting outing ahead then attempts to hand dad his coat.

“Where’s my HAT?” the whining continues. “Do I HAVE to wear my gloves?”

We finally have whiny 86 year old dressed when he announces (I kid you not)

“Hold on a second, Lyssie, I have to go to the washroom.”

Escorting my father to the washroom was done with less haste.  Thank goodness there was no bus to catch.

Eventually and miraculously we somehow all found ourselves 30 minutes later reunited at the Hockey hall of Fame on Front street.  For the first time since this outing had been suggested, I sensed a speckle of excitement as the ticket lady offered to give Toby and my dad a hand stamp.  They BOTH thought this was pretty exciting and that set the tone for the afternoon.

With Toby sitting on my dad’s lap in his wheelchair, I pushed my two precious boys around and listened to the marvels that unfolded.

I heard Toby lament over the condition of the old hockey skates and sticks and my dad proudly boast about his very similar ones that he played on in minus 26 degree weather on the pond behind his parents house.  I saw Toby ooh and ah over the hockey greats and heard my dad nonchalantly reminisce about scouting them when they were mere kids in highschool.  I watched in awe as the great love of sports bounced back and forth between them in their candid bantor. 

While the boys got settled in to watch the 3-D hockey movie (Toby’s very first movie in a theatre!)  I rushed over to see where the Stanley Cup was so we could go there next.  To my dismay it was up a few flights of stairs, at the end of a giant room and had a series of steps and a ramp in order to get to it.  Getting my dad there was going to be a NIGHTMARE.  I spent the next few minutes mapping out the handicapped route before rushing back to the movie theatre, the plan ruminating through my head.

The movie was a huge hit (minus the part where Toby and my dad almost fell of their seats simultaneously when the puck came flying out at us.)  It appropriately highlighted the exhileration of winning the Stanley cup which was a perfect segue to our next adventure of getting everyone TO the actual Stanley cup.

Even I was in awe of it when we finally entered the great room (twenty minutes and two blistered hands later!!!!)   We wheeled my dad up to it, helped him out, and waited in line to approach.

I don’t think I’ve seen my dad walk that far, unaided, in quite some time, but we were all eager to look at the great Stanley Cup and marvel at his name.   Rob was a skeptic the whole time, proclaiming out loud various practicalities on how not EVERY name was going to be on it.  And that’s the thing with Alzheimers patients- - they aren’t always that great at pleading their case.

So when our turn FINALLY came and my dad miraculously made it up the plank and to the cup, it shocked us ALL when we found it.

HARRY BOYD, SCOUT

Written 4 separate times on the Stanley Cup.

“WOW!” Toby said incredulously, “PAPA!  Your team WON this cup FOUR TIMES!”

The pride in my dad’s eyes was contagious. 

“So we did, Toby…” he said thoughtfully. “Look at that!”

A generous bystander offered to take our picture and as the camera snapped that moment in time still for us, I knew it would be one I’d reflect on for years to come.

The snap of the camera also heralded the end of our journey and the inevitable start of the long trip home.  This time we WERE taking dad on the TTC (with a stop for lunch beforehand, of course).  We arrived home several hours later exhausted from our exciting day of travels.  My mom  (and post nap Mia) came rushing down to greet the great voyagers upon our return and asked us immediately how our afternoon had been.

“It was fine, Grandmda” said a very practical Toby, “But I spilled milk on my pizza and mommy had to wipe it up and then I didn’t get a drink with my meal but I got a huge scoop of ice cream afterwards and GUESS what flavour it was - - CHOCOLATE.”

She turned to my dad who was already headed for his chair in front of the TV

“What did you think, Harry?”

“Oh, fine…” he said vaguely  “I guess we had a good time.”

And that’s when I realized it.

I had planned with earnest excitement this amazing afternoon that my dad and my son would forever remember; one that would forever symbolize for them their innate bond over their mutual love of sports.  I pictured them both in perpetual cherishment of the photo we took.   I imagined the pride they would feel both in hindsight over my father’s, and Toby’s grandfather’s great accomplishment in sport.

But as it turns out, these beautiful moments and intense emotions and memories weren’t just for them; it was also for me.  It was I who got to watch my two boys- the bookends of my life –cherish each other’s observations and accomplishments as the random afternoon I’d subjected them to unfolded.  And the pride, at the end of the day, was all mine.

I have looked at this photo many times since it was taken Saturday afternoon; I suspect it is one I will look at hundreds of times in the future.  In it I see such joy and pride but above all else I feel a sense of gratitude for my dad, for my son, and for this beautiful and spontaneous afternoon I was given.

The New Discovery

I love red wine.  I would ALMOST go as far as to say that I’m a wine snob but if the end of the world were upon us and all I could get my hands on was a flavourlsess merlot or a young beaujoloais I’d put all pretentions aside and gladly imbibe.

 I blame it all on pregnancy.  Before my 9 months of abstinence (x 2) I was much less discerning with my taste buds.  Red wine (in whatever form it took) = flowing conversation, loud meals, lively family get togethers and side splitting laughs with the girls.  

And then I got pregnant.

I’ve been to medical school.  I know the risks.  But I also read the posters in the bathroom stalls of seedy bars.  Needless to say, my red wine consumption took a drastic nosedive to nothingness.  Or ALMOST nothingness, I should say.  (I indulged in one SINGLE glass on my 30^th birthday…5 days before my due date…)

 During that time of intense abstinence I found it shockingly easy to still enjoy lively family gatherings, flowing conversations, loud meals and sidesplitting laughs with the girls.  What I began to crave, however, was that first PERFECT sniff and sip of a BEAUTIFUL, full bodied, layered red wine.  And when, months and months after the confinement was over and I once again allowed myself the guilt free pleasure of wine consumption (we are talking MONTHS after the initial 9 months!!!) I found myself scrutinizing the wines.  If I was only able to now enjoy ONE glass at a time it had BETTER be a GOOD one!  (Or so I told myself…)  The reality was this: I had become a red wine snob.

Over time, I have managed to hone this snobbiness down to an art.  I read about red wines in monthly magazine subscriptions to Food and Wine.  I have coerced unsuspecting friends out to wine tastings to temper my fastidiousness.   I have watched the movie Sideways and taken notes.  I make regular trips to the vintages section of the LCBO.  I have an App on my iPhone.    I have embraced my snobiness; although I no longer imbibe in quantity, I DO indulge in quality.

 

Last night, on a particularly unremarkable Wednesday night, we were enjoying a nice roast beef dinner with the kids and the smells from the crock pot when I got home inspired me to pour myself a glass of red.  I knew it was going to only be one glass (Rob was having a beer- with beef- he learns NOTHING from me!!!)  So I scanned my collection of reds and decided I should pick one with a screw top.

WHY a screw top?  I asked myself that question 5 minutes later.  Maybe for ease of closing?  More likely to fit the price tag of a one glass random Wednesday night consumption?  We will never know.  I glanced quickly at the label – RESERVA – that ALWAYS makes a wine sound good and then made sure it wasn’t a Barolo – it wasn’t – and then cracked the lid.

The second I poured this wine I could tell it was a good one.  I couldn’t see anything through it and the legs on this baby put Angelina to shame.

And then I took a sip.

“Oh, shit. “ I thought as the perfectly balanced tannins and ruby red cherries melded in unison with the spice of pepper.  I didn’t even have a chance to finish my thought before the oakiness hit me and absolved my tongue of all fruitiness before leaving me with a dry lingering aftertaste of perfection.  “Oh no.  What have I opened…?"

And then it hit me.  Last month was my birthday - -I had treated myself to a LOVELY array of new vintages.  I had been given gifts of fine red wines.  I had bought only the best for the dinner we hosted that night.  We had tons leftover.  And I had thrown them all in with our collection…

Just when I resolved to keep this unintentional opening of a fine red wine to myself, my well-accustomed husband took one look at my first- sip experience and immediately demanded a sip of this piece of heaven that I was drinking.

BUSTED.

“Whoa.  That’s a nice red.” He said as he handed me back my wine, “How much does THAT one cost?”

Did I mention that I was busted?

“Well…” I said sheepishly…” I don’t EXACTLY know.  I kind of just picked it up off the wine shelf and figured it wouldn’t be that exciting seeing as it has a screw top….”

(Insert husband’s 5-minute lecture on how screw top wines no longer correlate with cheap wines.)

I still hadn’t answered his question.

I decided that the only REASONALBE thing to do in this situation was to enjoy the wine (which I then offered to share with my equally wine-informed husband) and deal with the ramifications afterwards.

After all the dinner plates had been cleaned up and the screw top lid had been placed back on our now half-drunk bottle, I engaged the family in a game of Bingo and then snuck upstairs to use my iPhone app to see just HOW MUCH this mysteriously delicious wine actually cost.

Rob was hot on my heels, yelling helpful things like,” I don’t ACTUALLY want to KNOW! “ And “If it’s REALLY good it is probably OK to breathe until Saturday night!” over his shoulder at me.

iPhone apps don’t lie.

This miraculous beauty was a mere $11.95

(I don’t even BUY red wines that cost $11.95!!!!)

In retelling this story today to my mother, I had it pointed out to me that I probably would never have ALLOWED myself to enjoy this wine quite so much had I checked the price tag first.  My mom isn’t often right on these matters, but this time we will go with that.

Tonight I am enjoying the remnants of this bottle as I write my blog and I have to say that my opinion on it hasn’t diminished one bit since learning of it’s reasonable price.  What exactly does this mean?  Am I perhaps not such a wine expert as I thought?  Am I maybe not as much of a wine snob as I thought?  Is one of my friends actually an ingenious red wine shopper?

One thing is for sure: this little discovery over Wednesday night crock-pot beef is going to save this wine snob a LOT of money…

Morning Mia

Today Mia woke up at 6:30.  We don’t get her out of her crib until 7am in the hopes that ONE DAY she will learn to sleep until 7.  It worked like a charm for Toby; so far with Mia - not so much.

Every morning she attempts a new strategy to woo me into her room earlier than 7am.  This morning she was particularly enticing.  She started by going from zero to full-fledged 80 decibel shrieking in less than 8 seconds.  I swear that kid exits REM sleep and goes STRAIGHT to ear piercing shrieks with such talent I lie in bed in the mornings (with my pillow folded over both ears) wondering what occupation this particular skill set will be useful for.  If firemen needed to echo the screams of the firebells in instantaneous synchrony I swear, Mia would have been put on earth for exactly this purpose.  (I really should buy her a fireman outfit next Halloween…) But this morning. As it is on every morning, I was less than amused.

“MOOOOOOMEEEEEEE!!!!!” she shrieked a the top of my lungs at precisely 6:29 am.

(Have I mentioned that I hear this THROUGH my earplugs?”)

“MOOOOMMMMMEEEEEEEE!!!!!”  She continued predictably as I counted to ten and tried to relax, “MIA’S LEG IS STUCK!!!! MIA’S LEG IS STUCK!”

I tore my right earplug out of my ear and sat up in bed.

Silence.

We were both waiting to see what the ramifications of this new tactic would be.

I decided to myself that if Mia’s leg really WAS stuck SOMEWHERE in the dangerous, meticulously calculated, childproofed enclosure of a modern day crib, I would be able to decipher this scenario by noting the frequency and intensity of her cries.

Mia screamed again, “MOOOMMMMMYYYYY!!!! Mia’s LEG is STUCK!!!!!”

The left earplug came out.  I was now fully awake, sitting bolt upright in bed, sensing the situation.

Any move in the wrong direction could be potentially perilous to my situation.  Go in early and I was committing myself to a life of 6:30 wake ups.  Ignore her while her leg is stuck in the crib and I would be forever clouded with guilt (and possibly an amputated leg) and would therefore be forever committing myself to a life of 6:30am wake ups.  As I often find with 2 year olds, I was faced with a lose-lose situation.

Both earplugs were out, the sheets were off and I was putting one foot on the cold morning floor when she waved the white flag of taking things ONE STEP TOO FAR.

“MOOOOOOMMMYYYYY!!! HURRY!!! You don’t want to be late!” She cried in a last ditched attempt to get me into her room.

My child knows me so well.  But I know her better.  If her leg WAS, indeed, caught, she would NEVER have appealed to my rational-always-rushed-you-don’t-want-to-be-late-side.  NEVER.  She had had me at her foot was caught, but she botched it all up with the guilt trip.

I flipped the covers back over me and lay back down in bed to the sweet sounds of her resignation: she was singing Old MacDonald to her babies.

By the time I went in to get her at 6:50 am (I gave her a 10 minute reward for creativity) she was sitting in the corner of her bed (without a stuck limb to be seen) playing with her babies.

“Mommy!” she said excitedly, “Good morning!  Mia wants to go see some LEMURS today!”

So THAT was what was so pressing.  You never can tell with Mia; whether she has a critical limb threatening crib injury or the sudden urge to visit Lemurs one thing is for sure:  she certainly makes mornings at the Henry household exciting.

Wendy's Birthday Party

So many stories to share…and so much time taken up enjoying these little moments that my blogging has gone by the wayside.  I suppose that’s a good thing, but I also struggle with this innate panic that in forgetting to document these little things, they will become distant memories and quickly forgotten.   This one is random - -but sweet.

Tonight, after skating, Toby and I had a dinner date at Wendy’s.

The build up to this date starts about a month ago when he got a notice of this fundraiser in his “communication bag” that comes home with him every day. Thank GOD for the communication bag.  It has helped to clarify MANY a puzzling discussion.  On this one particular night about a month ago, Toby’s inquisitive little head would not seem to settle onto his pillow at night.  When I finally asked him why he couldn’t just lie still and close his eyes while I rubbed his back he came clean with it.

“Mommy…there’s a party coming up.  It’s at Wendy’s house.  On March 20^th.  Mrs. Shields says it’s TOTALLY up to you whether we go or not.  And I know it’s totally up to you…but…I just keep thinking that I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

Having not yet READ his communication book for the day I was a bit unprepared for this sudden announcement and was initially puzzled by his negative response to the party.

“Why would you not want to go to the party at Wendy’s house?”  my first reaction was.

“Well…” he said thoughtfully having OBVIUOSLY contemplated this at great length, “I don’t actually KNOW who Wendy is and you don’t have her phone number.  Also, I don’t think we know where she lives.  I think it’s just a BAD IDEA.  But, it’s TOTALLY up to you.”

Let me just set the stage here - -Mrs. Shields is your stereotypical gentle, slightly hippie, guitar playing- sweet voiced Kindergarten teacher.  I couldn’t ask for a more suitable one for Toby.  (And neither could he) and her word is the TRUTH and the LAW and I can only imagine the conflict now (after racing upstairs afterwards to read his communication book) as she carefully presented the information about the school fundraiser at Wendy’s in an unbiased way to her doting students.  I suspect Toby either took her unbiased approach to this party WAY too seriously or perhaps misinterpreted (or correctly interpreted?) this as disapproval?  Either way  - he was clearly uncomfortable with the whole thing.

And so I reassured Toby that we didn’t HAVE to go to Wendy’s if he didn’t want to.

And then, 3 weeks later yet completely out of the blue (as life seems to go these days) I found myself here today on Wednesday, March 20^th.  And according to Toby, it’s Wendy’s birthday party.

It also just so happened that we were alone, just the two of us at skating tonight and I was feeling a little pekish after the grueling hour of watching 5 year old skating lessons.  Toby had a similar feeling.  In fact, coming off the ice tonight we were on the same wavelength,

“Mommy.” He said excitedly, “Tonight is Wendy’s party.  Do you think we should go?”

He didn’t have to ask me twice.

Toby and I had a lovely date night at Wendy’s tonight.  He was a charming companion and had me laughing all the way there.  My socially-cautious boy got a bit worried halfway there and sent me into peals of laughter by repeatedly asking me HOW I knew where Wendy lived and was I SURE I had the right address for her house?  I told him REPEATEDLY that Wendy’s was, in fact, a restaurant similar to McDonalds but each time he pretended to hear me he followed my statement up with an earnest nod and then another question, “OK but are you SURE you know which house she lives at?!?!”

The party, in the end, was worth it.  There were balloons, classmates, French fries and his very first milk shake.  We came home tonight with frosty-infused-exuberance and oodles of stories for Mia and Daddy (as well as an extra burger).

I have to say, date night at Wendy’s was a complete success.   I certainly hope Mrs. Shields approves…