This evening my son (he of three) asked my wife for “a vanilla bean.”
“Come again?” my wife asked.
(I’m taking a wee bit of license here… she probably just said: “what?”)
“I want a Tall Vanilla Bean mommy.”
Cheryl and I had one of those “meant for you” moments. We each came to the conclusion that a certain mem-may (re: my bastardized, English approximation for in-law alleged, French-Canadian slang – meaning “grandmother”) was taking WAY too many trips to Starbucks on her baby-sitting day.
Mind you, I’m not above a tall, cool, Frappuccino myself (the kind with western civilization’s favorite stimulant – not the cream and ice kind). Still, I think kids oughta be carded at the coffee house door. Although I’m a recent caffeine convert, something about kids under 17 sitting around Starbucks nursing a cup of Seattle’s finest (not to be mistaken with Seattle’s Best) just seems wrong.
Somehow, someway… although I can’t quite put my finger on why… I think we’re sending my son the wrong message. Of course by “we,” I mean someone other than ourselves… that insidious scourge on parents everywhere, more commonly known as “grandparents.”
**Author’s note: My wife insists I mention that the “Vanilla Bean Frappuccino” does not contain coffee or caffeine. While I’m noting, I should also say that Adam isn’t really three. As I told my wife, two just didn’t sound lyrical enough when I started typing. (He will be three pretty soon though.)