Enter Harry

My kids took me on a date this weekend. Well, maybe I took them as I was the one who paid. We ate at Black Sheep Pizza in Minneapolis (eight thumbs up–Jordan's, Maddi's, mine and my sister Cynthia's..as she joined us for our impromptu outing.)

Walking towards the entrance, Jordan read the sign on the sidewalk (sounding out each word as we have been practicing.) He read, "B-l-a-c-k…S-h-e-e-p…P-i-z-z-a…E-n-t-e-r…Hair-ee." Then he called for me as I was almost inside, "Mom, can I borrow you for a minute?"

I loved the idea of being borrowed, needed and most of all consulted.

Jordan asked, "Who's Harry?"

There was lightness in my laugh–like playing hopscotch or being tickled by a feather, "Oh, that's a special word," I told him. "It looks one way but we pronounce it hereenter here."

"Oh!" he giggled at this light-bulb moment.

We ate fennel sausage pizza with two different kinds of mushrooms and kalamata olives and I told my kids how it used to scare me to bring them into a restaurant by myself. When they were smaller I was afraid they would be too squirmy to make it through a dinner. The pure exhaustion of the idea rarely made dining out worth it, no matter what was on the menu.

Maddi assured me, "But, now we are big, right mama?"

"Big enough to eat pizza with Harry," I said.

Sharing an inside joke told me just how big they are.

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