Odds Are

Every now and then, Younger and I manage to leave the house early on Friday morning, so that he can have breakfast at McDonald’s. And, taking advantage of his presence, I hand him the receipt to tuck into my wallet, leaving me free to concentrate on moving along in the line.

“I should get paid,” he muttered, one Friday morning, slipping the folded white rectangle behind the other similar ones.

I glanced at him, eyebrows furrowed into a frown. “Paid?”

“If I’m gonna be your bookie, I should get paid,” he clarified, stuffing the wallet back into my purse.

My frown deepened. “You aren’t my bookie, and I’m not paying you.”

“Well, if I have to take care of your receipts, I should get paid,” he insisted, completely overlooking his free breakfast, I suppose.

But my attention had now been caught. “Younger,” I said, a little carefully, beginning to be amused but not wanting to embarrass him. “Do you know what a bookie does?”

He ducked his head. “Maybe not,” he admitted.

“I think you mean bookkeeper,” I told him, a grin curling the ends of my mouth. “A bookie is the guy who takes people’s bets.”

“Oh.” And in the blink of an eye, he had glanced over his shoulder and through the rear window. “Then I’ll take your bet on the red car beating the blue truck to the first window.”

Again…we were sitting in line at the McDonald’s drive-thru.

One of us had a sure bet.

It wasn’t me.

He had apparently learned the meaning of “bookie” pretty quickly.

A mother can only be so proud.



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