Today’s tale was supposed to be in the Chronicle, but I had a little mixup with using their new system, so it’s been delayed until next week.

In the meantime, here’s a tale from a couple years ago. My youngest and I were at RJ Gators, a cool restaurant, which has since closed down, that featured swinging benches and tables. In short, it was the perfect place to take your son out to lunch.

Unfortunately, swinging back and forth has a tendency to cause spills. This day was no different. During one of our swings, some ice sloshed out of his cup and on to the floor. The waitress shot me an angry glare.

I leaned over to my son. “Uh-oh,” I whispered. “You’re in trouble now.”

He literally gasped. “What? Why? What did I do?”

“She saw you spill that ice,” I said, “and she’s really mad.”

He glanced at her, and then looked back to me really quickly, as if by not looking at her, she wouldn’t be able to see him. “It wasn’t me,” he said. “It was you! You were swinging us too hard!”

“Me? Naaah, I’m too cute. I never get in trouble.”

“I can be cuter than you!”

“Psh,” I said. “Not even a contest.”

He looked over at the waitress, tilting his head so his big brown eyes looked even bigger. She, apparently, had been watching this whole thing. She smiled warmly at him and gave a little wave.

I smiled back at her and nodded, but as soon as our eyes met, she stopped smiling and looked pointedly at the ice melting on the floor.

My youngest laughed. “Da-addy,” he said in a sing-song voice. “You’re in trou-uble!”

Sheesh.

I climbed down and picked up the ice.