We went to Fantasy of Flight last Father’s Day, and had lots of fun exploring all the planes and exhibits. Towards the end, though, as we were wandering around a large hangar filled with all sorts of planes, I was getting a little hot and tired. So, when we saw a plane painted like a giraffe, I  decided to take the ultimate parent cop-out.

“Hey big guy,” I said to my oldest. “Could you go read the sign for that one and tell me what it is?”

Each plane had a sign with a couple paragraphs giving details about the plane, along with personal observations from the owner of Fantasy of Flight (at least I think he’s the owner). The signs are fascinating and go a long way towards transforming a bunch of old planes into a bunch of great stories.

I chatted with my folks as my oldest dutifully ran off to read the sign. We looked at more planes, and then realized that my oldest still hadn’t returned.

Looking back at the giraffe plane, I saw that a woman had joined him at the sign. She was a classic Florida girl: blonde hair, deep tan, thin white shirt over a brightly colored bikini. My seven-year-old was leaning into her as she read to him.

My mom hustled over to thank the woman and retrieve the big guy.

“What were you doing?” I asked as he walked back. “You know how to read.”

He shrugged.

“Well, what was the story? What did the sign say?”

He looked at me blankly. “Sign?”