My oldest came home from school last week to tell me that all of the second-graders were invited to the school’s Cinderella Ball.

And that the boys were supposed to ask a girl to the dance. Second grade? When I was that age I was still trying to figure out why my Mom dressed me in plaid socks up to my knees, and why my older sister was sporting a matching pair. I’ve got the pictures to prove it.

I suggested he ask someone and go to the dance, not like a girlfriend, but a friend to hang out with and have fun. He shot me a look as if to say ‘I know what you’re doing,’ then surprised me when he half-heartedly replied, ‘Maybe.’

Maybe was better than NO.

So I continued on, trying my best to describe the fun my lanky 7-year-old would have with a female pal by his side, while awkwardly sipping some punch. I suggested he ask Bettylou, and yes, names have been changed to protect the innocent. Bettylou lives down the street, a blonde sweetheart who rings our doorbell to play and was Griff’s first date to get ice cream. Or maybe not. Is it a date when your mom drives and your little brother goes along for the ride?

Griff nodded yes, said he would ask Bettylou the following day, and we called it a night.

The next day arrived and the bus made its rounds, and there was my son, stepping off from a long day at school. He told me he took the plunge and asked Bettylou to go with him to the Cinderella Ball and she agreed.

Yet he didn’t seem thrilled with the results.

Griff went on to say, ‘Then before the bell rang she told me she decided she didn’t want to go after all.‘ NO! I didn’t exactly have a Plan ‘B’ hidden up my sleeve. Fast-forward four days later. I just tucked Griff in bed, and as I write this, he yelled from his room that he forgot to tell me something. ‘What’s that,’ I asked? He replied, ‘I forgot to tell you that

‘Bettylou changed her mind.

Heartbreak avoided.

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