I’m sitting in a booth at the world’s busiest Chuck E Cheese; reminding myself that off-peak times are a much better time to bring the kids here. Mom and our eldest have finally gone to cash out his prize tickets so we can go home. Waiting next to me in the booth is our youngest, slurping down his brother’s soda.

Hey! I grab the soda from him and offer him his sippy cup of milk instead.

Leaving him to his milk, my mind wanders; I watch the TV hung high in the far corner. After a bit, something breaks my trance. I look down at the little one; he is again sucking down Sprite as fast as he can. I assume he’s trying to finish it off before I notice.

I take the Sprite and set it across the table out of his reach. I give him his milk.

He reaches for my Diet Coke. Caffeine, Nutrasweet, no way. I get it before he can. It joins the others across the table.

He contemplates the situation for a second, and then springs into action. I watch him slip under the table and head for the other side of the booth.

While he’s under there, I move the three sodas to my side of the table, and the milk takes their place. I recline with an amused smile.

He climbs up on the seat, ready, and anticipating free soda!

None are there.

Not saying a word, he gets this look on his face. A “hmmm, maybe it really was closer on the other side” look.

He climbs down.

I move the sodas and milk.

He returns to his spot next to me, ready for the free soda!

Milk.

Wordless.

With the same look he calculates his next move.

Down.

I swap the drinks.

Up on the other side. That same look, but with more determination. He climbs down.

I start laughing as I switch the beverages.

Up. Nope, not here. Down.

Up. Not on that side either.

I’m laughing so hard now my eyes are watering.

He continues moving back and forth beneath the table. My laughter impedes my ability to switch the drinks, and he almost catches me switching them.

In all he does this about ten times. Without a word, without a hint of frustration.

He finally wises up and goes over the table.

Mom noted that our older son would be in a Thanksgiving play, one of three his class would be doing. Without hearing more, I began an anecdotal lecture as I am prone to do.

“You know,” I started, “You need to be careful when acting.”

I proceeded to tell him about sixth grade history class. We were studying American History (American being “North America”, not the USA specifically). As an example, we were going to put on a play about the Battle of Quebec, where the English snuck up the cliff, surprised the French and took over the city (IIRC). I would play the French guard. Justin, a classmate, was the English soldier. In our scenario, he would come up behind me, “slit” my throat and enter the city we built of chairs at the front of the classroom. It went as planned, but when I fell “dead”, I slammed my head into the stone tile floor. The resounding thud surprised everyone. Unhurt, yet motionless, I layed there playing the part of a dead soldier. Our teacher, unsure if I had survived the fall or had knocked myself unconscious, stopped the play to ask if I was okay. I lifted my head and responded yes, but I was annoyed that my Oscar-worthy performance was being interrupted. Had I been careful, I wouldn’t have hit my head, causing the pause in the action.

“We’re doing a puppet show,” he informed me when I had finished my story.

“Oh,” I said, “That’s good. The worst that can happen when a puppet hits his head is you hurt your hand.”

He clarified further: “We have ultra-tight security. We’re using popsicle sticks.”