It started out like any other day.

We got up and lounged around on the couch in our p.j.s.  I read aloud a couple chapters of a Jigsaw Jones chapter book, tracking as I read with my bookmark.  The boys, sun bleached blond bookends, sat on either side reading along.  I finished my coffee.

We showered, dressed, and had breakfast.

The boys worked on their summer school work while I cleaned the house.  (School work was briefly interrupted when I requested the boys’ help in catching a baby lizard who was hiding behind a moving box in our living room.  We released him into the wild of our front yard.)

Prompted, I’m sure, by our lack of Cheerios and Lysol wipes, not of course our decidedly low level of tequila due to last nights Taco Tuesday at our neighbor’s house, we went to Costco.

With one hand I shoved my Costco card back into my purse and with the other I held up the receipt, preparing for the fight.  You may know it as the it-is-my-turn-to-hold-the-receipt-so-the-nice-Costco-person-checking-them-at-the-door-will-draw-a-cute-smiley-face-on-it-for-me fight.

Neither boy wanted it.  I was shocked and slightly saddened that this moment had come.

I handed the receipt to the nice man at the door.  He scanned the purchases in my cart and compared them to the receipt, drew a boring line through it and handed it back.

No smiley face for me.