Wee Man came home from preschool with a peculiar notion: It’s time for a Green Lantern dinner party.
He set the table with leftover party plates and cups from the 4th b-day Soccer Buddies/Green Lantern blowout last month. I got in trouble for eating off one of the plates. It wasn’t dinner, after all. He rearranged his setting with Martha-like attention to detail: pizza-flavored Goldfish go here, grape stems on this plate, apple sauce squeezers go there, Ritz Bitz next to his spot. It was quite deliberate.
When the Roo came home from school, she added an extra touch of sophistication. She wrote place cards and invitations on construction paper and delivered them to me as I sat hunkered over this computer working to meet a deadline.
“Please com to are party Mom,” it reads. She made one for Dad, too.
I was in that work-zone that I mastered when I was working full time here in the mouth of madness. I knew there was activity in kitchen, but I figured as long as I didn’t smell smoke, we’re good.
I came in to find the table cluttered, the OJ spilled (they’d poured it into Green Lantern cups to freeze for dessert) and the two of them ridiculously pleased with themselves.
I’m ridiculously pleased with them, too. Despite the mess, it’s wicked-sweet.
And honestly, it looks about the same in there as when I’m allegedly in charge of feeding us.
So it’s time to go enjoy my Ritz Bitz and junior chefs. Right after I pour myself a big ol’ glass of wine.