“Mom, you know that place where I like to go when we come here?”
My son and I were standing at the dreaded, painfully slow deli counter, where I have nearly gone postal on multiple occasions. It hurts my brain to watch how slowly one can manage to slice turkey.
“You know! There,” he pointed from the deli across the meat section to a shelf of doughnuts.
“There? Really? But you don’t even like doughnuts.”
He smiled, “Can we go there this time?”
By the time we checked out, the doughnut was half-eaten and my son had chocolate all over his face. He held the bag tight to his chest when the cashier asked if she could see. She was going to have to trust me on this one. There was only one.
When we pulled into the driveway and climbed out of the car, he handed me an empty bag and ran inside.
Maybe if I had “that place where I like to go when we come here” I wouldn’t mind grocery shopping either.