“A baby spa,” I said, trying the words out.
They sounded excellent together. My son was turning one. I could picture a little occasion, a treat, something lovely to tell people we had done.
He was not involved in this conversation.
We went to Giggly Panda, the North York location. I arrived with the particular interest of someone who has chosen an experience for somebody else and would now like to see whether she chose well.
I watched his face.
He seemed fine.
I watched a little longer, in case a more enthusiastic expression was on its way.
Still fine.
In my head, the words “spa day” came with a slower version of life. Soft voices. Nothing urgent. Somebody else knowing what happened next.
I had apparently expected him to recognise this as a welcome change from his demanding schedule of being one.
He looked at me. I smiled at him. He continued being himself.
It had sounded better when I was booking it.
He wasn't upset. He simply seemed unfazed, while I had enough anticipation for both of us. I found myself leaning into his line of sight, looking for a verdict he had no reason to provide.
We had a follow-up in September too. He took that in his stride as well.
When I picture the outing now, I picture myself watching him.
The hopeful smile. The raised eyebrows. All that encouragement for a person who hadn't said anything was wrong.
I had booked him a relaxing experience.
One of us was making rather hard work of it.