There are just certain things we can't say no to. Unfortunately, Garrett's big, begging, eyes are one of them. (Within reason, of course.) So Troy set about finding some kid clubs that our boy could use and, on the day that he went to the course to make sure everything was ready for their group, he took Garrett along.
And found out that you have to be eight to golf there.
Then there was wailing and the most horrible gnashing of teeth. The worst kind of devastation descended upon our six-year-old. We somehow managed to get him past his time of grief and, last Sunday, he had the opportunity to sign another sheet.
This one was for people willing to bring food to the adult hospitality room during our annual Harvest Party. "Look, Mom!" he said as he approached me holding the sign up sheet in his hands. "I signed up for something else since I couldn't go golfing."
Unsure of what he'd gotten
"Why? What is that?"
"It's for bringing food to the harvest party," I said.
"Oh! Cool! What am I bringing?" he asked.
"COCKTAIL WEENIES!" I said in a lecturing tone (although it should be said that there was a hysterical outburst in the back of my throat that I only barely managed to swallow down).
He tilted his head to the side. "What the heck is a cocktail weenie?"
And then I had visions of us trick-or-treating while carrying around a crockpot full of mini hot dogs. Needless to say, his name was whited out and a female who has a good thirty years on Garrett signed up in his place.