The birthday is officially over. The birthday has officially been over for three days now. We’re still coming down from the high of cake, and pizza, and picking out a gift. Don’t misunderstand – BFam and I didn’t pick out the gift. Mooter picked out the gift. By herself. In the middle of a toy store.
For an hour.
Rule number one to parenthood: Never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, never, ever, ever, never, ever, EVER. EVER. Let your child stand in the middle of a toy store and say the following words… “Now pick something.” If you do this one thing during your tenure as parent, it means a) you want to die a slow, painful death; b) you don’t like yourself very much; c) you have a lot of time on your hands to kill; d) you like having your fingernails slowly, methodically pulled from your hand by pliers; e) you were looking for just the right reason to tell police why you had to kill your child that was justifiable enough where you wouldn’t go to prison for the rest of your life, maybe just for a little while to the nice room with white, padded walls; or f) all of the above.
We tried this last year. In a larger toy store. BFam’s idea. It ended with Mooter in tears and BFam popping Tylenol for the rest of the night.
He is SO going with her to buy her first car. And prom dress. And tampons. And deodorant.