I regret to inform you that I did not attend Joe’s game tonight. Did he make a catch like the gal below? Doesn’t matter; I wasn’t there.
Nope, because we were basically out of food I had to swallow my guilt and ditch him. “I’m sorry, kid,” I told Joe. “How about I buy you some of those croissants you love?”
I took our three girls with me rather than send them to the ballpark with Daddy for him to watch. He liked that I did that for him and to tell you the truth, he likes me. (I’m so lucky.)
We were standing in line with our overflowing cart. The girls were chattering over the one serving of French Vanilla ice cream I’d bought them—passing the spoon from sister to sister and giggling all the while.
“I have three girls,” a man piped up suddenly behind me.
“Really?” I smiled. “I call these three my little hens.”
He harrumphed and didn’t say much to that. In a moment, though, he continued. “Well, mine are older now. One is a teacher, one just graduated college and the third is a sophomore.”
I murmured my approval to this list of his, and when he said the word “teacher” Cate exclaimed, “My mommy was a teacher! She taught French!”
I wondered if he’d heard her because again, he grew silent. I had turned back to my cart when he blurted, “We taught them Suzuki violin!”
“Oh, that’s a great program,” I said enthusiastically. “I don’t have the time to learn an instrument, alas…”
“Well, it’s all about the parenting,” he retorted.