McDonald’s, Roses, and the Seven-Year-Old Strategist

By Janita Le Grange

He came through the front door, bursting with the kind of urgent, life-altering news that only a primary schooler can deliver.

“I have a girlfriend.”

I paused, looking at him. “That’s big news. What’s her name?”

He stared back at me, completely unbothered by the minor detail he had overlooked. He didn’t know. But what he lacked in a name, he more than made up for in romantic protocol. He informed me, with absolute gravity, that he needed to pick roses for her, buy her a chocolate, and source a ring—because he couldn’t possibly break her heart.

Where does a seven-year-old get these ideas?

I stood there mentally auditing our garden. Roses aren’t even in season, and I certainly don’t own a rose bush. We compromised on the chocolate. As for the ring? I wisely kept my mouth shut and let that one slide.

It took a full week of serious playground diplomacy, but he finally came home and proudly announced her name. Progress.

This whole romantic saga actually started a while back during a trip to McDonald’s.

Across the road sits a block of modest little flats. There was a “For Sale” sign outside one of them, and right then, over a box of chips, a grand life plan was born. He looked at the building, looked at his cold drink, and declared that he, his future wife, and their child would move in there.

In his mind, it was absolute magic. It was close to school, and more importantly, right next to McDonald’s. Prime real estate.

In a seven-year-old’s logic, life is simple arithmetic. He wants his own place so nobody can tell him when to go to bed or pick up his toys. But he doesn’t want to be lonely, so naturally, he needs a wife. And in his head, 1+1=3, so a child is just part of the standard furniture package.

The mechanics of it all? Completely blank. He has zero concept of the birds and the bees, or what it actually takes to care for a human being.

He reckons you just go to the “baby factory,” place an order, and collect your delivery from the hospital. We can thank animated movies for that particular logistical theory—storks operating a glorified courier service.

At first, he announced he wanted five kids. Then he took a moment to calculate the sheer volume of cooking and toy retrieval that five children would require, and promptly downsized. Two kids, he decided, would be far more convenient. Efficient. Manageable.

He genuinely thinks he has life completely figured out.

He has mapped out his housing, his family size, his romantic gestures, and his proximity to fast food before he’s even mastered long division. Everything in his world right now is clean, innocent, and effortless.

Aristotle said that knowing yourself is the beginning of all wisdom.

Watching my son, I realize he knows exactly who he is in this precise moment. He knows what he likes, what he wants, and what feels comfortable. He hasn’t yet learned to overthink, to doubt his plans, or to worry about how the bills get paid.

Granted, his “self-knowledge” includes the belief that an apartment next to a drive-thru is the ultimate pinnacle of success, but the clarity is enviable.

Since the girlfriend announcement, he has already revisited his master plan. He recently decided that the flat across from McDonald’s might not be quite suitable for his wife and child after all. The market is shifting. The strategy is evolving.

I’m not planning a wedding just yet.

For now, the grand adult master plans can wait. He doesn’t need to worry about real estate, baby factories, or keeping up with five kids.

His ambitions for the week are much closer to home: passing Grade 1, wrestling with his daily homework, and giving his absolute best at cricket practice.

We spend so much time as adults trying to figure out who we are, untangling the complicated layers we build up over the years. Maybe true wisdom isn’t having the whole blueprint drawn out. Maybe it’s just knowing what matters today, keeping things simple, and remembering that a little chocolate goes a long way.

Tomorrow, he’ll probably change his mind again. And that’s completely okay.

For now, he’s seven, he’s learning, and he’s got the whole world right where he wants it.