The Donor Scare

Ansel is a phenomenal 'helper' when I am shopping and with his 'help' I can usually get in and out of the store in double or even triple the time it would have taken me if I was on my own. I usually don't mind the extra time because I am just so thrilled that he is still excited about mundane, day to day errands. The girls, on the other hand, are zombies walking down the aisles, pestering me every 1.3 seconds about how much longer this is going to take because they are close to death and I am a cruel and unusual mother because I subject them to shopperboarding.

Ansel and I have a game that we played once and he loved it

so much that it is now a staple in our shopping experience. It is

called "I spy". Maybe you have heard of it. While walking down the aisles, we play 'I spy' until he can figure out what it is we need to put in the cart.

"I spy with my little eye..... something red." I say

"Is it strawberries?" he asks.

"Not this time."

"Is it apples?"

"Yep. I need five. Can you get me five?"

He gets 5 in the bag and 10 on the floor. Then it is his turn to be the spy.

"I spy with my little eye......something white."

"Is it milk?"

"Not this time."

I know exactly what it is he wants, but am hoping to suggest some better alternatives.

"Is it eggs?

"No, it is white and has a hole in the middle and starts with Do and ends with Nut."

He is too cute to resist. The donuts go in the cart.

His assistance is by no means completed when we reach the check out counter. He races to the grocery dividers and slams one on the conveyor belt. Scrambling to get the most fragile items, I simultaneously maneuver my weight to counter-balance the impending toppling of the cart due to the unstable acrobatics of a five year old with big ideas on small arms. Ansel tip-toes on the bottom rung, inserting the rest of his body into the interior, insisting on being the one to reach the yogurt in the far corner. Once the items are on the conveyor belt, Ansel further assists by thrusting what items he can grab, into the face of the checker. Admittedly, I am not always amused, especially when I can feel the burning displeasure in the hurried looks of the shoppers behind us in line. But many times we are greeted with chuckles and kind souls who tell me, with a hint of sadness, that Ansel reminds them of their own son who is now grown.

Ansel's latest obsession is with the credit card machines. He now always wants to be the one to swipe the credit card, sometimes requiring two or three takes. And if the clerk ever wants to see my driver's license, Ansel insists on being the one to flash the identification. But on a particular day last week , in the midst of handing over the ID, he paused and stared.

"Why is there a red heart on your driver's license?" he asked.
It wasn't the time or place for me to answer this properly. Honestly, I didn't expect any devastating effects.
"Oh, it just means that if I die, the doctors can use my healthy body parts to help people who need them."
"Like your fingernails?"
"No, like my heart or my eyeballs."

Conversation Done.
Conversation Forgotten.
At least for me.

Ansel's thoughts were marinating in my words.
Several Days later, we found ourselves at the post office. Again, I needed to reveal my identification. We were leaving the post office when Ansel lost it. His legs stopped. His lips quivered. His eyes became full.

"I don't want them to take your eyeballs!" he wailed.

It took me a minute to mentally catch up.

"I'm sorry that made you sad. I love you and I can't promise that nothing will ever happen to me, but I can promise that my eyeballs will play 'I spy ' for as long as you still think it's cool." Which may only be until next week.