On Sunday morning while Luz, James and I were enjoying a leisurely breakfast in the middle of the incredible cross wind that is created by opening the front and back doors, I heard the unmistakable sound, the tell-tale clomp, clomp that can only mean one thing.
I haven't figured out the pattern, but Camp Street is occasionally the route of choice for the Roman Candy Man, so every now and then we get lucky. Luz is familiar with the sound at this point too and immediately darted out of her seat, grabbed her baby doll and the nearest pair of shoes and raced to the front porch (did I mention she had on a ballgown - she wore it all weekend - a recent score from an incredibly generous round of hand-me-downs from my friend, Natasha). James followed behind, shrieking, and I was trailing behind both of them, fumbling for dollars and the nearest pair of shoes.
It was a sight, fortunately one that nobody else saw because it was only about 9 a.m. It was also James' first experience with taffy and, in retrospect, one of my stupider parenting moves. Brand new baby teeth really can't do much to reduce taffy to a substance that can be swallowed. I know that now. Luz, well, she enjoyed every minute of it and ate the taffy even after dragging it over every surface at the playground.