My cross to bear

We were trolling the not-as-good-as-the-one-on-Saturday, more-flea-than-farmer's market yesterday. I'd gotten some pumpkin-sized yellow peppers and the more-petite red ones, as well as a bag full of not-as-ripe-as-I'd-hoped tomatoes, and was letting the kids have a look at some of the other booths before we headed back home. Em was lingering for quite a while at a hand-made jewelry booth, so N started looking, too.

"I like that one best of all," he announced definitively, pointing vaguely at the counter, mere seconds after he'd joined Em.

"That's nice, dear," I said in my best I-am-actually-paying-zero-attention-to-you-but-am-trying-to-fake-it voice as I peered a few stands over to see if they had mushrooms. (Not a 'shroom to be found at this farmer's market. Feh.)

"I DEFinitely like that one best of all," he repeated. I glanced over at him, only to find him pointing at an easily six-inch-long cross.

Greeeeaaaaaaat. "You like that, huh?"

"Yep. It's the best one here."

The lady behind the counter was watching me now, slightly expectant, figuring on a Christmas sale, I'm guessing. I couldn't resist; I kept her in the corner of my eye as I leaned in toward N and said, in a stage whisper, "It's very nice, but it's not really meant for a Jewish boy like you. That's meant for someone who goes to church, not to temple."

And I smiled sweetly at the clearly eye-rolling lady behind the counter (oh, please, lady; like I'd buy a six-inch-long cross for a barely three-foot-tall boy under any circumstances), took my son's hand, and led him and his sister away from the booth, while he kept repeating, "But it's the best one!"

Thank god for the distraction of a family-size bag of kettle corn. Nothing like a little salt, butter, and sugar to derail a budding Jew for Jesus, I guess.