Tough decisions

Picture this:
The year is 1970.
I’m at Toronto International Airport, accompanied by my five children The oldest is eight, while the youngest 19 months.
Joining me is my friend Peg, along with her three, four and five-year-olds.
Yes, we took eight kids to the airport.
With no seat belts on Peg’s 10-year-old station wagon, we piled the little ones on top of the big ones, making the one-hour trip without smothering a child.    
The excursion was two-fold: We’d pick up a friend, visiting from Vancouver and give the kids a chance to see the big airplanes.
Just as the Vancouver plane landed, Peg noticed our eight children had disappeared.
Within seconds, Peg pointed to her right and said. “Oh, there they are. Joan go and get them. I’ll wait here.”
I took a few steps, spotted the kids, did a quick head count, confirmed there were eight and breathed the standard mother’s sigh of relief.
I then noticed something peculiar  — the children were standing in a circle.
When I got a little closer, I learned why.
Our children had trapped a midget.
Inching a little closer, I took stock of the situation.
The little man was in his early 50s, bald, wearing a three-piece business suit and carrying a leather briefcase.
The children were well into the throws of asking questions and touching him.
My six-year-old Sally leading the Q and A.
“Do have little paper in your brief case?”
“Can you go to the store all by yourself?”
“Do you have to sit on a phone book when you eat?”
While Peg’s only daughter rubbed the man’s shoes, my three-year old son reached out and took off the man’s glasses.  While the man attempted to recover his glasses, my seven- year old Danny asked his one and only question: “Can you drink beer?” 
Before the man could respond to the booze-related question, my four-year-old, Gord, decided it was time to rub the man’s head, while asking, “Who took your hair?”   
I had to make a decision. Claim the kids or not.
I weighed the options: Since both Peg and I could have more babies, we could leave the kids in the care of the midget and hope for the best. Or, I could simply step forward and humiliate myself. 
“Sir, I  am so very sorry,” was my opening line. I quickly rescued the man’s glasses, asked my son to quit rubbing the man’s head, told Sally she didn’t need to know if he can ride a two wheeler and stopped Peg’s daughter from trying to take the laces out of his shoes.
The little man looked at me, smiled, assured me he wasn’t damaged in any way and said, “It’s not often that I get such a welcome at the airport.”
We took the children home and raised them. I think it was the best decision.