Almost Anything

I would do anything for my kids. Well…almost.

For her last birthday, one of Arden’s friends gave her a Polly Pockets doll, complete with accessories. Polly had a couple of shirts, some pants, a pink purse and even a little blue suitcase. For reasons I will never understand, Daxton started carrying around this little blue suitcase yesterday morning, and calling it “his bag.” This bag is TINY. Teeny-tiny. It is about the size of my thumbnail, but with a handle. He carried it around all afternoon, which wasn’t too big of a deal because we didn’t really go anywhere, and I thought it kind of cute that for some bizarre, 2-year-old-boy reason he wanted to play with this minuscule bag when Arden has at LEAST three or four other normal size bags that he could have used.

After Preston was done working, we went to Target to pick up a few things, and Daxton brought the bag along. Unfortunately for Preston, he had now started calling it “my purse.” I thought this only made the whole thing funnier, but of course Preston disagreed. Dax excitedly showed his new favorite toy to some other kids at Target, yelling, “SEE MY PURSE! IT BWOO!” (It’s blue). Preston cringed. I laughed.

Our next stop is dinner at Wingers, or “the popcorn place,” as the kids call it. Dax of course proudly brings his bag with him into the restaurant. Once the waitress brings the popcorn to our table, it was (as usual) a little bit of a feeding frenzy with the kids all trying to get their hands in the bowl at the same time and popcorn spilling everywhere on the table, the benches of the booth, the floor, etc. Somehow during the popcorn frenzy, Daxton put his bag down on the bench, and with all of the bouncing of the kids, it worked its way into the crack at the back of the bench and became wedged. Dax discovered the problem and began wailing, “MY PUUURRRSE! MY PUUUURSE!” for the entire crowded restaurant to hear, much to Preston’s dismay (and my amusement). Preston tried desperately to retrieve it for him, but only succeeded in pushing the bag down further down and past the cushion. Unfortunately, the bottom of the bench was enclosed, so we couldn’t just pick it up off of the floor underneath the bench. While Dax continued to lament the fate of his purse (loudly), Preston tried to push his arm behind the cushion and reach down inside the bench to retrieve the teensy bag. Preston’s hand/arm was too big, so he looked and me and said that I would need to do it since my arms are skinnier. Daxton looked up at me with hopeful eyes.

I started to visualize what exactly my fingers might touch if I was able to fit my arm through the crack in the bench. I pictured pieces of fossilized popcorn, old soggy French fries, other old bits of food and who-knows-what-else that could have been down there for who-knows-how-long. I quickly decided that the odds of me finding that miniature little bag without touching something truly disgusting were just not good enough.

Am I am mean mom, or what?

Sorry, Dax. I love you more than tongue can tell buddy, but you lived your whole life before yesterday without that teeny bag, and tomorrow you will hopefully have forgotten all about it.

If not, I know where Polly Pocket’s pink purse is.