This past weekend, my six year old grandson, Nolan, spent the night.  On Sunday morning, I woke and came upstairs for my elixir of life (more commonly known as coffee).  

 

I hear footsteps come up behind me.

 

"Gigi,"  he says softly.  "I'm hungry."

 

I don't have much food for a six-year-old in the house.  In my defense, his appearance on Saturday was a surprise.  I did not get to go to the grocery store to pick up kid friendly food.  So, after a few gulps of coffee,  I turned to him and said, " Let's get dressed and go get some donuts."

 

That is kind of our go to.  He loves to pick out the various types.  Just about anything with icing and sprinkles is fair game.

 

We drive to the grocery store, find the bakery and he points while I pluck the donuts and put them in the box.  Once we are sure we have enough to satisfy everyone at home, I close the box and tell him to hold it flat.

 

"Nolan, you have in your hands diabetes in a box." I tease.

 

He nods and smiles, revealing two holes where baby teeth used to be.

 

He follows me around while I grab a few more things, then we head to the register.

 

The cashier watches as Nolan puts the box on the conveyor belt.  She leans down and says, " Ooh.  You got some yummy donuts?"

 

Nolan doesn't bat an eye, just looks at her seriously and says, "No, ma'am.  We got diabetes in a box."

 

Sometimes, I forget that saying: Little pitchers have big ears.