Last weekend, we took Ethan (age four) to a Bees game, which is the minor league team here in Salt Lake City.  He and I were bonding over our love of hot dogs.  He asked if he could get one for dinner at the game.

“You have to get a hot dog at a baseball game,” I said.  “Anything else would be un-American.”

My boyfriend, Matt (Ethan’s dad), didn’t agree.  “You two enjoy that,” he said, wrinkling his nose at the thought of overpriced and nitrate-loaded junk food.  “I’m getting something else.”

“Is it because you want the terrorists to win?” I asked sarcastically.

Before I could add “Why do you hate America?” Ethan responded.

“Nooooo!” he said.  “You HAVE to root for the BEEEES!”

I bit my cheek to keep from laughing as Matt assured him that we were all pulling for the same team, and then we left to catch our train to the ball park.  Come to think of it, we didn’t really clear the matter up.  Ethan probably spent the entire game thinking that the Salt Lake Bees were playing the Omaha Terrorists.

My Bad.