Today was one of those days. A whine fest to rival none other. So, after a non-existent nap, I decided a trip to Tar-zhay would put a smile on faces all around.
Things were going pretty well until Baby Boy spotted a goddam mountain of Tickle Me Elmos smack in the middle of the aisle. I had already sent a disclaimer instead of Christmas cards out warning that anyone that brought that Devil toy into the house would be unfriended, ASAP.
The next several minutes torpedoed into a full-on, like nothing I have ever witnessed from my child, tantrum with him throwing himself atop the red beast's (thankfully quite secure) box screaming "Get Him Out Now!"
As the crowd gathered (I saw a look of relief pass amongst the moms that at least it wasn't their child--this time.) I realized that perhaps none of them had made the connection that he was actually mine (thankfully, he has started to look more like Darling Husband--and that is the first time I have been grateful for that).
My second thought was the horror of someone recognizing me as the parenting columnist--if word got out that THIS is how my child behaved, I would be fired, run from town, banned from restaurants--tagged as artificial as my blonde hair and boobs.
Around this time, BB triggered the button that makes Elmo laugh, and now all bets were off. I managed to get him into the cart and sprinted for the register--he still had death grip on the now quite mangled box, which I still had zero intention of buying.
As soon as we got to the line, he saw the latest US Weekly. Elmo fell to the floor with a thud (I gracefully kicked him into the vacant neighboring checkout booth) and celebrity rag took over.
He is mine after all.
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