Two nights out of the last four our son has pleaded for a tea party.
The kind with tea cups.
And while you’re at it, a bean burrito.
The kind that calls for donning a twice-worn sweater vest, your dad as maitre d’ and seventeen towels to wipe up the oopsies.
Because whatever it is…this chance to feel ten instead of five or fifteen instead of eight–
Or to finally eat where there’s carpet…
They embrace it. The whole experience.
All twenty minutes of it.
And if my eyes aren’t fooling me, it seems they’ve grown a little older in that time.