Alternate titles for this post: why I’m never taking Mary clothes-shopping again OR ways in which a three-year-old seems much like a thirteen-year-old
We were at a “superstore”-type grocery store the other day, and I made the mistake of walking past the girls’ apparel department. Mary insisted she be let out of the cart, which I did without really thinking about it (sleep deprivation impairs judgment), and she instantly grabbed an Easter dress, which she was sure I should buy for her. It was the wrong dress on many levels: wrong size (and they didn’t have one in her size), too expensive, tacky as heck (I mean in my opinion — she thought it was fabulous, since her goal right now seems to be to look like Barbie), and rather immodest. I toyed with the idea of just buying the thing, but decided it would be wrong to give in on this one, so I wrestled it out of her hands and put her back in the cart.
The wailing could be heard throughout the store.
I almost went home without even buying milk.
She calmed down after I promised the purple Skittles (I would have bought her those anyway, as I have become “checkstand pushover mom”).
But I’m not shopping for clothes with her again any time soon.
See that stick-figure princess on her shirt? Her name is Mary. So are all of her dolls’ names. Mary. And if the girl in a picture book is cute, or is wearing pink, or if she is pink (e.g. Piglet in a Winnie the Pooh book) her name is Mary too. (P.S. It’s a little hard to get through the book “Chrysanthemum” when she keeps insisting we call the main character Mary.) And any discussion of numbers (what time is it? how long until we get there? how many do you want? etc.) must end with an answer of three. “Because I’m three.” In other words, her self-centered-ness knows no bounds. I’m trying to decide if this is just normal, age-appropriate behavior, or if we’re really in for something.
Notice also in the above photo that she’s asserting ownership of the baby’s crib. Even his stuff is all hers.
It’s a good thing she’s so darn cute. I’m going to post the following picture somewhere so that when she’s acting like a “pig,” I’ll remember that at least she’s a cute little pig (thanks for the picture, Amy):
That’s her bff Helen. I think it’s so sweet that they both have old-fashioned names. If you heard of friends named Mary and Helen, wouldn’t you assume they were grey-haired old ladies?