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Last weekend, we went sightseeing in our city.
We had a very long couple of days, packed with more fun than should be allowed. By the end of the second day, we were all ready to collapse.
Our last hurrah was dinner at one of Joe and my favorite local restaurants, where the signature drink is called the Mango Bango.
The Mango Bango is an impressive beverage. It’s very large and frozen and sweet and so very tasty. I have no idea what it’s made from, aside from a top shelf mango rum mentioned in the menu. It’s a huge and beautiful drink, and I love it.
For the last three years, I have been a non-drinker, Dear Reader. First, I was pregnant, then I had a newborn, and then my doctor put me on a medicine that is counter-indicated for alcohol.
I don’t drink.
When I opened the menu and saw the Mango Bango looming large on the first page, I ordered one on a lark.
It tasted every bit as good as I remembered.
I wasn’t the only person who thought it was beautiful and tempting.
What that, Mommy?
I explained that it was a grown up drink and that I couldn’t share.
Oh. Some for Gracie?
I tried again to explain that it was a grown up drink that I couldn’t share.
At that point, Grace took matters into her own hands and reached for the glass.
Of course, I noticed, and I slid it out of her reach, but only after she grabbed the straw. See it in her hand over there?
I want that, Mommy.
I replied, “I know you want that, Honey, but you can’t have it.”
I want that, Mommy.
I sighed. “I know, Honey.”
Grace is resourceful and crafty and tenacious, a lot like her momma.
She snuggled up next to me, with her head between my arm and my body. Thinking she wanted to cuddle, I gave her a squeeze and went back to drinking and chatting.
And then, in a flash, her little tongue was half an inch from my Mango Bango.
She was so close she could smell it.
Fortunately, the waitress was at the table at that moment, and she noticed the Please save me! look on my face.
“Can you bring her something that looks like this?” I asked her.
She smiled and said she could.
A few minutes later, she returned with this:
I tasted it because I was concerned that it was the real thing. It wasn’t. Actually, it tasted very little like the real thing. Apparently, the booze are pretty important.
Grace was in heaven. This is deeelishous, Mommy. I love it.
Manda, I have mah own drink!
Ah love mah own orange drink!
She went on and on. Her faux Mango Bango was the only thing she talked about during the meal. She sipped it all night, to the detriment of her french fries and sliced hot dog.
The faux Mango Bango proved more than Grace’s little belly could handle. She drank about a third of it.
Because she’s the sweetest baby in the whole world, she tried to share her special drink with her daddy when she’d had enough.
She dropped it, and it spilled all over me.
I spent the rest of the meal wet, sticky, and smelling like mango, and I didn’t care one bit.
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