Adventures in (a Philadelphia Burger King) Playland

On Monday, someone stole my son's sneakers from the shoe bin at the indoor playground at Burger King. Kellen was understandably confused and upset. I told him that whoever took the shoes probably needed them more than he did. This confused my son even more since the shoes were not new and had giant "K's" written all over the sides in black marker.

Last Monday at the same Burger King (I get around), I was standing in line when I noticed a man standing by the door. He looked hungry so when it was my turn to order, I offered to buy the man some lunch. He declined and said that he wasn't hungry. Twenty minutes later, the man hunted me down in the indoor playground and asked me for money. I told him that I would be happy to buy him some food, but that I wasn't going to give him cash. The man mumbled something under his breath and stormed out.

The Monday before that, at a different Burger King, my kids were eating lunch when a little boy about age five approached the table and picked a french fry off my son's plate and ran away. To our total surprise, a few minutes later, he did it again. This time, I followed the boy and found him hiding underneath a table in the far corner of the restaurant. When the boy approached the table for the third time, I cut him off at the pass and told him to pull up a chair.

All of this would be very funny....if it wasn't so terribly sad.

We are all very fortunate indeed.

The Slumber Party

On Friday night, my neighbor hosted a girls only slumber party at her home. Usually, I avoid situations where I am expected to hold my own in conversation, but there was a strong likelihood that one or more of the other party guests (four slightly inebriated women whose median age was 49) would spill the beans on something of interest, so I went.

The first half of the evening was spent eating salad and discussing how we all would rather be eating dessert. The second half of the night was spent eating dessert and praising ourselves for eating salad first. As the conversation drifted away from ourselves and onto our children, I was struck by the fact that the stories these women told about their college-aged children (bad manners, stolen property, urinating in places where they shouldn't) sounded eerily similar to the stories I tell about my five-year-olds and other people tell about their dogs.

Even after playing Truth or Dare and batting around the idea of 'TP'ing a neighbor's house just for fun, none of use could shake the feeling that there was something missing from our slumber party. A few minutes later, the front door swung open and a streaker--wearing only a pair of underpants--ran through the house.

I love my husband.

Philly Speak

"Can I have some wuter?"

"What did you say?" I snapped.

My daughter repeated her request and, as she did, I covered my hand in horror. There was no mistake; my five year-old was acquiring a Philly accent.

The seriousness of the matter justified a frantic phone call to my husband at work. He was not moved by request to hire a speech therapist, even when I told him that his daughter was turning into a Guido.

My husband enjoyed talking about the subject so much that he suggested that we brainstorm possible solutions to this serious problem over the phone. I proposed that all of our children wear earplugs in high risk places like the train station, the deli, and at school. Tim proposed that I find something more substantial to worry about.

Posers

In case you haven't heard, the Philadelphia Phillies won the World Series. This is a big deal around our neck of the woods. Since the baseball playoffs began several weeks ago, it has also been big business.

"I'm the only one without a Phillies anything," whined my daughter on "Phillies Day" at her elementary school. I thought my five year-old's assessment of her peers' wardrobes was a gross exaggeration...until I picked her up from school. Almost every man, woman, and child who exited the building was wearing a Phillies t-shirt, and 99.99 % of them had never been washed.

I apologized to my daughter for making her a social outcast, but I didn't give in. We like the Phillies, but we definitely don't bleed red, white, and blue. Out of respect to the true Phillies fans--those who have endured dismal seasons and the annoying Philly Phanatic (the team mascot) for the past two decades--I won't pretend like I am Chase Utley's #1 fan. Nor will I let my kids pretend like they are either.

That night, my husband sat down our eldest three and explained to them the importance of not being a poser.

"Just because everyone else is buying Phillies gear," he told them, "It doesn't make it right."

"When you're an adult," my husband added, "You can pick which church to attend and which teams to cheer for, but until then, we decide."

That was my cue to produce the visual aids. Next to a picture of our church's temple, I placed a Duke jersey, Angels t-shirt, and special edition UCLA Bruins 3D soda cup.

Everyone got the point.

The only problem with spelling out our loyalties so clearly is that now when our kids want to get our goat, they threaten us with the unthinkable.

"When I grow up," screamed Cortlen yesterday, "I'm going to cheer for the Phillies!"

Tim shrugged his shoulders.

"And Carolina! Go Tar Heels!"

My husband turned white as a sheet.