The Max takes after me most decidedly on one respect.

Chocolate.

I say that reverently, and with the proper respect.

Today we baked some double chocolate mini cupcakes and took them to his football (soccer) class. We also randomly gave them out to people on the street. You know, spreading  chocolate joy to the world. The street cleaner guy, a little girl who was passing by in a stroller with her parents, the guy at the convenience store nearby.

And we gave some to our neighbor, Ms. Maria, an older Italian lady who has lived in London for years (ever since she married an Englishman, who has since died, leaving her behind to tend to an herb garden gone wild because he was the cook, not her). She had to return the favor by giving us some chocolate sweets (as an aside, she likes to call The Max “Chucky Chuck” which really disturbed him for a while, but now he’s okay with it). One for each of us: me, The Max, and daddy.

Max’s got eaten in about two seconds.

About five minutes later, he’s in front of me with mine, unwrapped. “Split it, Mommy?” he asks. So, of course, I have to agree. Who can resist that? He breaks it in half and gives me the smaller bit. We eat it.

Daddy’s chocolate sits on the table all through dinner. Then it gets opened. Daddy isn’t home yet. Max looks at me. He breaks the chocolate into three pieces. He looks at me again. He eats one piece. “My share,” he says.

A little while later, I see that he’s holding the one he designated as my share of daddy’s chocolate. “Go ahead and eat it,” I say. That’s all the encouragement he needs.

A little while after that, I see that daddy’s share has magically dwindled down to this tiny, sodden mass of grubby chocolate clutched in his hand. I tell Max to go ahead and eat it. He does. Then he looks at me very seriously. Solemn, with big eyes. “I ate all daddy’s chocolate. He’s going to be mad.”

He looks very solemn. I tell him it will be our secret.

Chocolate. The ties that bind mother and son.