This past weekend we had another karate tournament to attend. My children have grown up around them. They know the rules. Keep your stuff together, don’t enter the ring, play with your friends, and follow all directions because if you don’t everyone in that gym knows who you are.
During these tournaments, my children roam free. They can find me at the head table at any time. And I know that one call over the microphone will bring them running to me. Most likely they are in a corner playing with friends, or watching others compete. But this weekend we have graduated to getting our own snacks.
I was walking the gym, making sure things were running smoothly and I found my son. My wonderful, friendly, comedic son was sitting with a friend eating twizzlers (at 10 am). I asked him where he got the twizzlers, hoping to return the favor of shared snacks to another family.
“from the vending machine.” (This cannot be good). Now I wonder which mom or dad I owe money to for allowing my son to purchase said snack.
“Where did you get the money for the twizzlers?”
“From the dad machine.” And he breaks out in giggles and runs to tell his father what he said.
The rest of the day was kind of like that, moments of hilarity, definite camaraderie.
And my son was the happiest because he got money from the “dad machine.”