Two weeks ago, our neighbors moved. My older son asked if he could help them load things up and they told him no, probably thinking it would be a relief to him. He came home bummed that he didn't get to help. He said, "When our new neighbors move in, I WILL help them." He did. Every day they brought over small loads, and my son was there.
On Friday, I took two kids, including my elder son, and my sister shopping. Since he was still being uber-helpful, my son told me to tell him what I needed as we walked around and he'd put it in the cart for me.
"I need milk." He ran to grab it.
"I need grapes." Done.
"I need flour," I said, pointing to a fifty pound bag.
My sixty-five pound son jumped at the chance to heft something nearly as big as he was. Wrapping his arms around the bag, he lifted. To his credit, he had it in his arms before gravity took over. My son began bending backwards to compensate for the weight he carried. Then the flour laid him out, right there on the aisle floor. The monster bag of flour perched on his chest, the clear victor. Trying to get air to his crushed lungs, my son gasped.
So did I, but I was laughing.
He had to suffer through several seconds before I controlled myself and lifted the flour into the cart. It was heavy. Still chuckling, we continued on down the aisle, passing another shopper who stopped us long enough to say, "That WAS funny."
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