Spelling lesson

Thomas' mother keeps us well-dressed in Neumann College clothing. Thomas, Blake and I all have sweatshirts from the school, which is in Pennsylvania. That's about all I know about it, other than it's Catholic and they spell "Neumann" correctly.
Last Christmas, we received the wrong size sweatshirt for Thomas, so I called and talked to the bookstore manager about an exchange.
"You wouldn't believe how many Neumanns are out there," he told me. "This time of year, we send stuff to San Diego, Texas, Connecticut ...."
I didn't have the heart to tell him the San Diego and Connecticut Neumanns had gotten several gifts over the years from one Marilynn Neumann of San Marcos, Texas.
Tonight I was wearing my Neumann College sweatshirt, and Blake proudly read aloud the letters: "N-E-U-M-A-N-N!'
"Do you know what that spells?" I asked him.
He said very earnestly, "Yes." Then he paused.
"Shirt!"

Golden Arches

In a past life, I would have said to myself, "What are they thinking?! Don't they know what they are doing to their children?! Haven't they seen 'Supersize Me'? That kid REALLY doesn't need that Happy Meal."
Nevermind that I would have been thinking this as I swallowed juicy, wonderful bites of my own Quarter Pounder.
But now I get it.
Now I am the parent of a toddler. He's not the most fickle, but at one point three weeks ago, I could not remember the last meal that had gone well. That Friday, I decided to give us both a break and take Blake to McDonald's for lunch.
It wasn't the first time he'd had fast food, but it was perhaps the first time he'd had it on purpose. We usually eat it only when we're traveling.
Nevermind that my own upbringing included a weekly Sunday trip to McD's (the only bribe that worked to get us to go to church.) And nevermind that McDonald's, being close to my high school, was lunch of choice once I was old enough to drive off campus at noon. As an adult, I knew better.
But that Friday, I wanted a peaceful meal. The Golden Arches beckoned.
It worked! Blake ate every bite. And it was fun. A McDonald's before the lunch rush is full of oldsters who say nice things about your children. Blake and Dylan were admired, a Happy Meal was consumed, we avoided the surely-dirty Play Land, I pocketed the Hot Wheels toy for a stocking stuffer, and my sandwich was fantastic. Success all around.
The next week, at Blake's 2-year checkup, the doctor asked how he was eating. We talked about my feeding frustrations, and I admitted our recent trip to the dark side.
Surprisingly, she suggested we go back a few times a month, "If he won't eat protein any other way."
I waited another week before going again. It was harder this time to keep Blake away from the Play Land (even after I told him about Uncle Pat breaking his front tooth on a Grimmace bouncer in Charlotte, N.C.) And then this: he didn't eat his hamburger.
If he won't eat the meat, I can't justify the trip. So disappointing, because I really like that Quarter Pounder. ...

Election Day

Dylan had Thomas and me up this morning before the polls opened, so we each took advantage of the early hour and slipped out in the fog to vote. My doing this, though, prevented Blake from getting his civics lesson first-hand.
Later, Blake was chattering "vote, vote, yeah!" in response to talk on the car radio. So I seized the teachable moment.
"Blake, today we vote on a new person to be in charge of the country. Do you know what it means to be 'in charge'?"
"Yeah!"
"Really? Who is in charge, Blake?"
"Mama!"
Good boy.
...
When I told my clever spouse this story, Thomas said, "Well, clearly, he doesn't know what it means to be 'in charge.'"