When it comes to men, it’s all about fruitloops and boobs!

I recently spent a birthday weekend observing the 7 year old love of my life.  He’s at a fun age because he can have intelligent conversations about history and laugh about fart jokes, all within a span of two, maybe three minutes.  That’s when it dawned on me that most men never mature, at least socially, beyond the age of 7 and the sooner we women realize that, the happier all of us will be.

Let’s examine the facts in one 24 hr period:

8am – “What’s for breakfast,” he asks with a sleepy face.  When I give him a choice between healthy eggs or Fruitloops, guess which he selects?  “I am the King of Fruitloops!”  No milk necessary because he can eat those right out of the box.  (Now, stay with me because this proclamation of sovereignty over cereal plays a role later in the same day.)

9am – We’re at the beach, where I now make a proclamation that I am getting too fat.  “Oh, no you’re not,” my little love

states and hugs me.  OMG he knows just the right thing to say at 7.

9:15am – He’s hungry AGAIN!  And again, Fruitloops wins out over a delicious peach.

11am – Next stop, Boston but it’s a long ride and he’s out cold in the backseat.  He falls asleep to the loud bachata music he has me blaring over the speakers.  He can sleep through anything.  (Are we sensing a pattern yet?  Is he 7 or 37?)

1:30pm – “Are we there yet?”  The King of Fruitloops conveniently awakens as we pull into the garage in downtown Boston and guess what?  He’s hungry AGAIN!

Faneuil Hall, Quincy Market and downtown Boston are loaded with fodder for his historical trivia fixation and he MUST read EVERY sign he sees from inside the Old State House to the cornerstone of each and every building along the waterfront.  “Did you know, Paul Revere ran through the streets of Boston yelling, “The British are coming, the British are coming?”

The city’s Granary Burying Ground is an absolute treasure trove for his fertile fixation with historical minutiae.  John Hancock, Mother Goose and Ben Franklin’s whole family are buried there.  He giggles about a man who passes wearing socks with sandals and stops dead in his tracks for an 18-year-old blond, dressed in a sequined dress (more like a top for what it didn’t cover) and spike heels.  His eyes do a 180◦ turn, as he follows her down the promenade of Faneuil Hall and then looks at me quizzically and asks, “Where does she think she’s going?”  But alas, the boob review gives way to the churning in his stomach yet again!

5pm – Time to eat.  Inside Quincy Market, as most Bostonians will tell you, is loaded with overpriced bad food.  No matter to the Fruitloop King; afterall, he lives on a diet of bad pizza and $6.00 ice cream cones!  Nary a discerning palate to be found.

7pm – “I’m tired.  Can we go back to the hotel just to watch a movie and eat stuff?”  And so his day comes to an end as Jackie Chan’s “The Spy Next Door” gets one last chuckle before lights out.

The history and beauty of Boston harbor! Cuppa tea anyone?

He can quote me all of the presidential trivial one would ever need to compete in a TV game show.  I mean, did you know that William McKinnley, the 25th President, was fatally shot in the stomach in 1901?  However, as for my birthday, he remembers the month but can’t remember the exact date and when reminded, he contritely says he’s sorry that he forgot to buy me a present.

Ladies, the point is, we expect too much from them beyond the age of 7.  We should remember how cute they used to be at that age and know that a quick glance at boobs and a stomach full of food is all it takes to keep them happy.

“So, if you could only pick one food to eat for the rest of your life, what would it be?”  He tells me to guess.

“Fruitloops,” I say, thinking this is a slam dunk.

“I can’t believe after all this time you don’t know me – the answer is french fries!  Geesh!”

The more things change – the less we know them, so why fight it?