leg warmer

Whenever we ordered pizza, as a kid (which wasn't very often), I liked to volunteer to ride with Dad to Pizza Hut and pick it up.  I'd jabber the whole way there and back.  My soft spoken Dad didn't usually have a lot to say in response to my ramblings (maybe he was ignoring me?), but I think it was just enough to let me get in some of my 7,000 daily words during our drive.

Once we had picked up the pizza, I got to ride home with the hot boxes on my lap.  I loved how they made my thighs warm, warmer, then hot.  It was nearly too much heat to take, but we'd pull into the driveway just as I thought the pizza would burn through the box.

Thursday afternoon got away from me and I was facing 5 o'clock without a dinner plan.  Thankfully, Daddy offered to "cook" and Papa John was called in as reinforcement.  I headed out the door to go pick up the pizza and my Kate rushed after me with a "Can I come?" on her lips.  She hopped in the backseat and chattered at me the whole way, talking about friends and school, games they play at recess and the boys she chases 'cause she's so fast.  It made me smile to remember my own talkative self as I stole a peek at my beautiful girl in the rearview mirror.

We grabbed the pizza and I slid the boxes onto her lap for the drive home. 
"Are your legs getting hot, Kate?" I asked. 
"I like it.  It is warm!"
And, as we pulled into the garage she said, "I want to stay under this pizza blanket forever!"

I guess she's better at handling the heat!