This is the story of a young Midwestern boy who begins his journey to manhood at a most unexpected time.

A couple of years ago, my family and I stopped to eat at a Greek restaurant in Indianapolis on a random wintry Saturday night. It’s one of our favorite spots. It’s small, quiet, and serves some of the best Greek food one can find in the Hoosier state where Vienna Sausages are considered fine ethnic cuisine. We’ve been there scores of times, but usually only during the lunch hour or on weeknights. We weren’t aware—and I swear, there was no marquee outside announcing it—that weekend nights are made more, um, authentic by some lovely Mediterranean talent.

We were nearly finished with a delicious dinner when some enchanting Mediterranean music began playing, and a scantily clad belly dancer started sashaying around, tempting every male in this joint to threaten his marriage by daring to look up from his plate of moussaka even for a second.

By this point in the meal, our son – who was had just turned five – was done eating and was playing a game on mama’s iPhone—something we allowed use he was likely to fall asleep in the restaurant if he didn’t have something to do. At any rate, the belly dancer made her way toward our table (or so I’m told, anyway, because I was staring too intently at my dolmathes to notice). As she bellied up to our table, our son refused to make eye (or any other location) contact with her. Instead, he stared intently at his chicken fingers. My wife and teenage daughter were giggling at both my son and me because we were staring holes through our plates. (And I hadn’t even gotten to teaching him that lesson yet. I mean, he was only five. I thought I had time.) 

After realizing that there were some old men at a corner table who were too old or senile to care what their wives thought and who were staring right at her, she wiggled her way away from our table. (And thank goodness, because there’s only so long a guy can stare at a plate of dolmathes or a random chicken finger before he cracks.)

As we were leaving, a tiny voice popped up unbidden from the backseat and says, “I am wanting to look at her more and more.” After collecting myself—and those of you who know me, know that I have a healthy and ornery sense of humor that isn’t easily wrangled—I asked him why he felt that he wanted to look at her “more and more.”

“Because I want to keep my eye on her.”

I swear, it was all the girls and I could do to contain our laughter. My wife and daughter might have been a little more successful than me in that effort.

Okay, a lot more successful…