Oh, how my heart skipped a beat when I picked up my seven-year-old Peanut from camp and he held out this and asked me to pick a number:
Squeeee! I love these I love these I love these! I thought.
With impressive dexterity he counted out ten, deftly pinching the fortune-teller out and in.
He grinned as he spelled it out, again moving more quickly than I thought someone new at something could.
He slowed a bit at spelling orange, but did it.
And I get…
Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold the phone. Never in all my elementary school years did I have that for a fortune. It was usually about kissing someone or marrying someone or wearing a certain outfit.
I looked askance at the camp counselors.
“I got die. That’s not how I remember these things.”
One of them smirked. “Yeah, I got die earlier today, too.”
I frowned a bit. “It it a command? A suggestion?”
His favorite counselor shrugged. “An inevitability?”
The proud young man had his brother choose. Number, color, color…
“Get a cougar? He gets a cougar? I die and he gets a cougar?! Life is so unfair.”
Peanut is simply beaming. He’s thrilled that the family finally has a cougar. Butter begs him for another try.
He chose a different number. And a different color.
Dude gets two cougars. And I’m still dying.
This is some bullsh*t, y’all.
So I ask Peanut to make me a fortune-teller when we get home. He says he doesn’t know how. Never mind. I have made hundreds in my lifetime. Give me that thing and I’ll deconstruct it.
No problem. We grab a stack of paper and go in the yard. I have three fortune-tellers done before the kids have even remembered to ask for a snack.
Peanut makes this follow-up:
Pretty weak, if you ask me. Win a medal? Pbbbththth. Forty-four pieces of gold? Meh. Drink pee? Geez, boys are gross.
Butterbean suggested the following. All are verbatim answers to the following questions: “What numbers do you want me to write; what choices do you want me to write; and what do they get if they choose that answer?”
Note that he always chooses B.O.G., which is frosting. B.O.C., B.O.P., and B.O.B. are less popular. With everyone.
Now I make a proper device of happiness and goodness.
That’s right…choose between apple pie and strawberry shortcake. I dare you. (I count out only the letters for the fruit, not the whole dessert. I’m old and don’t need fortune-teller arthritis.)
Oh, yeah. Peach cobbler or blueberry pie. Colors my butt. things are gettin’ REAL up in here.
So Peanut picks a number. And a pie. And a blueberry tart.
You got it, reader. I populated the whole thing with delightful ways to make mom feel good.
When he heard his fortune, the seven-year-old who often rolls his eyes and runs when I ask for affection actually shrugged, walked over, and gave me one heckuva hug.
You have to make your own fortune, people. That’s all I’m saying.