This past weekend, we dropped $300 on a Burley for untitledson. Momma doesn’t have so much as a banana seat, yet Little Lord Fauntleroy is big pimpin’ in his own personal rickshaw. The only thing that would make him happier is if untitledhusband wore a loin cloth and a cowbell and escorted him to and from day care every day.
What is it about this child that compels me to pour every last nickel out of my purse? He is my chunkerdoodle, my bub, my little man with cheeks of flan, and nothing makes me happier than providing for him. He has stripped me of my ability to say no. “A miniature pony? Yes. A 2,000 square foot playhouse? Why certainly. A gold-plated Tonka truck? Sounds like a worthy investment.”
Because of him, I pay $3.39 for a half-gallon of organic milk, when I could buy the poisonous variety for half that price. I go to the expensive car wash, since the menacing brushes at the drive-through car wash frighten him. When he was in diapers, I’d spend twice as much on Pampers Cruisers, for fear the el cheapos with the non-licensed characters would chap his ass, if not provoke the other toddlers to ignore him during circle time.
Everything that goes on him or into him has gone through a complex and very scientific decision matrix in my head. It would probably shock untitledhusband to know how much thought I put into which brand of white socks he wears. Things like him eating hot dogs at daycare keep me up at night, for I can only imagine how the nitrates will affect his SAT’s and ability to father children.
I’m a little fearful that in my efforts to make his life as painless as possible, I am setting him up to be a little prick (cue memory of untitledson throwing a tantrum over getting an Odwalla carrot and raisin bar at snack time instead of Teddy Grahams). I mean, I am fairly convinced that the reason I am doing as well as I am today is due to the fact that Mr. Clark called me fat in front of all my 7th grade classmates and that I was never asked to dance during all my junior high and high school years. Not once. Can you believe that shit?
This is the pain that I cling to, for it makes all life’s disappointments a little less shocking. It gives me compassion and context. And yes, it is probably what motivates me to buy the Master his Johnsons & Johnsons baby shampoo when the Target brand is much cheaper and would do just fine.
I know that at sometime in his life, untitledson will need to experience being the last one picked for kickball. He will need to feel a little self-conscious about wearing clothes purchased at Target, or egad, Wal-Mart. It’s these experiences that drive us to get a job at age 14, even if it is scrubbing toilets in a nursing home, so we can afford Guess jeans, baby blue Reeboks and Bon Jovi’s latest cassette.
These experiences propel us through all-nighters in college, and the endless drone of the work-a-day world. And if the parents have done their job, the child will find them to be truly pathetic. The child will be driven to take his life farther, past the minivans and hedges and Tuesday night sitcoms. And I can’t help but think that this Burley, especially with his father at the business end of his merciless riding crop, will most definitely give untitledson a head start.
