Friday, October 12, 2012

Sign Up Sheets

Many weeks ago, our church started advertising for the annual golf scramble. It was announced from the pulpit, a sign up sheet was placed in the foyer, and people began to discuss their swings. The Rock Star wants to be all grown up in the worst of ways. He hears mention of a men's breakfast and he's begging his daddy to take him. He hears Dessert Social and he's already planning what we'll bring. He heard Golf Scramble and, suddenly, he saw himself on the PGA Tour. Later that day, he walked up to me holding the sign up sheet. He'd written his name on it and was excited to show me that, since he'd signed up, he was definitely, without a shadow of doubt, going golfing with his daddy.

Can you see it there? On line five?

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 himself us into, I took the clipboard from him. "Garrett!" I admonished. "You aren't allowed to sign up for anything else without asking me first."

"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.

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