We did a Doughnut Dash last week, although dash is a misnomer.
You don’t dash anywhere with five little girls. Car seats with five-point harnesses, booster seats and stubborn seatbelts make an airport check-in seem effortless.
Our mission? To find the best doughnuts on our side of the city. We made two stops, which was roughly one too many but nonetheless their company made for wonderful entertainment.
The girls are at an age where they talk a lot. Often, all at the same time.
We are driving along when a four-year-old yells, “Hey! I know where we are. This is where the policeman stopped my mom!”
“Is that so?” I ask.
“Yes. But we’re not going to tell Dad about it.”
We reach our destination and unload.
We place our order, which is simple. “Any and everything with sprinkles, and if you have doughnuts that are nothing but solid sprinkles, we’ll take those, too.”
They are wolfing them down, as much as you can wolf one sprinkle at a time, when one randomly announces, “I made a card for Mommy with a heart that says, ‘I love you.’ Mommy says it is so special she is going to save it forever.”
”Wow!” exclaims her older sister with sprinkles stuck to her face. “She usually trashes everything we make.”
“I need to use the restroom,” announces another. “My hands are sticky.”
Five girls make five trips to wash their sticky hands, each returning with clean hands only to finish their sticky doughnuts.
“THESE ARE THE BEST!” one of the girls yells. This one is often loud because she is the youngest of three and must be loud to be heard.
The staff looks over and nods approvingly.
“YOU KNOW WHY THESE ARE GOOD?” she asks.
The staff leans in.
“BECAUSE THIS NEW STORE IS CLEANER THAN THEIR OTHER STORE!”
“Keep your voice down,” I whisper.
“OK!” she shouts. “BUT IT IS, GRANDMA. IT’S BIGGER AND CLEANER!”
“Look at my arms,” shouts one of the girls.
“What about them?”
“They’re hairy. I think I’m turning into Daddy.”
Wild laughter. Milk jostling. Table tipping. Everyone comparing arm hair.
“I have long legs like Daddy,” another says.
“Dancers have long legs,” states her sister.
“Grandma, do you know what I’m going to be when I grow up?”
A couple stops by to comment on how well behaved the girls are.
“Thanks,” I say. “But it’s still early.”
The husband, slowly glazing over like the doughnut before him, begins reading coffee selections aloud from the menu.
“Dark Roast Caribou...”
“Does anybody want anymore?” I ask.
“I need to cut myself off. I’m not as petite as I used to be,” says a string bean.
They are wiggling and giggling, knocking coats to the floor.
“Dream Bean Coffee ...” the husband continues. There’s now a kid on his lap and one draped around his neck.
“Jamaican Me Crazy...,” the husband says drolly.
“HEY! THAT’S WHAT MY MOM SAYS EVERY DAY!”
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