Red

I love spending one-on-one time with my kids.

Something happens when I'm alone with them - their thoughts pour out, they open up and share stories that otherwise would have remained unshared, and I really get a window into who they're becoming when we spend time alone together.

And, they say - without any type of filter - whatever they're thinking.

I love and encourage that. Most of the time.

This past week, I picked Jack up from school while his three younger brothers were napping and their Dad worked at home.

We went to the local {very overpriced, but incredibly delicious} coffee shop.

Jack picked out a chocolate chip muffin and hot chocolate, and I got a peppermint mocha, and we sat for over an hour and just...

talked.

He laughed and waved his arms about {no idea where he gets that :)} and told me who he plays with on the playground, how Mrs. Z, his classroom assistant sometimes calls him "babycakes", and that of all the things he's working on at school, he loves writing on the white board the best.

(Oh, how I loved writing on the chalkboard. They've been replaced with white boards now. My sister and I lament this fact from time to time and mourn for our childhood.)

Our time together was delightful and I hung on his every word.

Somewhere between eating his muffin...

And, getting his hot chocolate...

A red-headed gal walked into the coffee shop.

And, when I say red-headed, it was bordering on purple.

Jack was in the middle of telling me about the new Ninja game he and his friends are playing at recess when he spotted her.

And in true, one-on-one time with Momma, say whatever you're thinking, BE WHO YOU ARE AND OPEN UP WITH YOUR FEELINGS...

He stopped mid-sentence and loudly announced:

"Mom, I do NOT think God made her hair that color."

I closed my eyes, and tried to reach back five seconds to grab his proclamation before it filled the coffee shop.

But, it was out there. Echoing. Lingering.

The paper-grading, 60-something math teacher sitting next to us, the clerk, the businessmen meeting in the corner, and the teenie boppers at the counter did everything they could to control and maintain and stifle.

It was a lost cause.

For all of us.

Next time, I'll bring a sign:

Date with Momma.

Six-year old filter was checked at the door.

Enter at your own risk.