I once bought a pair of shoes in a final sale, loved them in the store (even though they were a rather distinct shade of pink), but were shockingly unable to find anything with which to wear them. I have also been known to buy things on vacation (those alpaca sweaters from Peru come to mind), but look downright silly in them when I try to wear them at home. I couldn’t return the shoes or the brightly-striped sweater, so I was either stuck with them, or had to pass them on. (If you see someone in a tacky Peruvian sweater and size ten fuchsia heels,  you’ll know she shops at the Goodwill on Dearborn Ave. )
In hindsight, I should never really buy anything with a no return policy.
Sometimes I feel like that about my kids. Or, more specifically, my two year old.
At the time of conception it all seemed like a grand idea. I was jolly and buoyant during the interminable pregnancy. Even the hospital scene was both dewy and euphoric. But lately I find myself cursing that damned policy.
Today she got her hands on a Sharpie from Bennett’s binder and unleashed herself on my dining room table. My white lacquered dining room table. Now, this is no precious piece of furniture. I’ve had this table for about nine years, and I’ve managed to remove all sorts of scratches and marks. But I am not feeling at all confident about THIS:
IMG_1924[1]When I scolded at her, she shouted right at me: “IT’S NOT FAIR!”
I’ll tell you what’s not fair, sister. It’s not fair that I can’t return you for a more compliant model.
Minutes later she escaped to the deck where she got her hands on a brand new box of sidewalk chalk. I heard her whooping with delight and foolishly thought, “Ah the happy wee thing. Finding joy in some fresh air and art.” I was even momentarily impressed when I heard her calling out all her colors. (A personal favorite: “Lellow!”)
But I walked outside to find her throwing the very last piece of chalk off the deck and onto the concrete below, where it joined its brothers in smithereens.
I tried talking to her about this, but she barked, “Get your butt out of here! Right now!”
I wish I were kidding.
And so I did. I got my exhausted backside right out of there and sat in a dark room until I came to my senses. Unfortunately, my senses never arrived, so at some point I just got up and walked back out.
Folks, it seems that I am stuck with this defective model. Lellow ringlets and all.

Posted in children, Seattle, Uncategorized on Mar 12, 2013