Busted

As the boys and I were out driving around this weekend, my oldest made a suggestion. “Let’s go to the farmer’s market.”

“Nah,” I said. “I don’t have any money.”

“But it’s a really big one, and you haven’t been there before.”

He was talking about a local farmer’s market that charges a cover price just to get in. It’s supposed to be pretty amazing, but I’ve never seen it. Paying money so that I can buy stuff just doesn’t sit well with me.

“I still don’t have any money,” I said. “I don’t want to pay to go look at vegetables.”

“They’ve got a lot more stuff there,” he said.

I glanced at him. “Do you have money?” I asked.

“Well, I’ve got nine dollars in my pocket.” He shrugged.

I continued driving, my mind clicking through all the things at a farmer’s market that a 13-year old might want to buy. Finally, I remembered the fair, and the answer came to me. “You want to buy nine dollars worth of cotton candy, don’t you?”

He blushed. “Maybe.”

“That’s a lot of cotton candy.”

“It’s a lot of really good cotton candy,” he corrected.

I have to give it to him: he knows what he likes.

But we still didn’t go to the farmer’s market.

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