Going out for dinner with my 7-year-old son feels remarkably similar to my dating experiences in my twenties. Here’s how:
- He devours his drinks. While his lemonade or chocolate milk isn’t alcoholic, the sugar rush gives him a burst of energy that mirrors the effects of a night out. Initially, he’s animated and chatty, but eventually, fatigue sets in.
- He lifts his drinks with his wrists. Much like many young adults, he has mastered the art of using his inner wrists to grab his drink when his fingers are coated in sauce, skipping the napkin entirely.
- His order is a hodgepodge of carbs. An entree simply won’t do; he insists on a medley of sides to accompany his mac and cheese. “Let’s add fries and how about some extra rolls?” he requests with enthusiasm.
- He doesn’t inquire about my life.
- He turns his silverware into drumsticks, tapping rhythmically on the table to the background music.
- He talks endlessly about sports. Whether it’s basketball, football, or even skee-ball, he’s full of energy and passion, throwing out statistics that mean nothing to me but excite him.
- He demolishes dessert without a care for healthy eating. Who’s counting calories when there’s peanut butter pie on the table?
But unlike a date that ends with goodbyes, I tuck my little guy into bed at the end of the night, wrapping him in his favorite truck quilt and reading stories about a cat who believes he’s a Chihuahua and a llama longing for his mother.
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In summary, dining out with my son is a delightful blend of youthful exuberance and innocent charm, echoing my own youthful adventures in dating.