Jay was Porter’s first sleepover guest. They were seven and I’d planned the evening to keep them busy. Hard physical play, pizza, movie and sleeping bags. I’d made a pizza from scratch not long before and Porter had declared, “Gosh Mom, we didn’t know you really knew how to cook.” My stock rose dramatically with my sons since pizza and pancakes where their favs. I thought letting them help make the dough and dress it with sauce, etc. was fine entertainment, forgetting Jay’s mother did not cook. I had no grasp of how bizarre this project was to him.
Porter and his younger brother drove their small hands into the mass of sticky dough with relish. Jay stuck one tentative hand in and withdrew it. He examined the mess all over that hand and then turned his gaze on me. It was simultaneously, quizzical and pained. He continued staring until I realized he was searching for words. Finally, he blurted out, “My parents know where you can buy these and they’ll even bring them to your door.”
I reached for the phone to call Dominos.
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