Monday, November 30, 2009
I Am the Worst Aunt, Ever
I just got off the phone with a friend, who was telling me of her plans to bring her 2 year-old son to see Santa at the mall tomorrow, hoping that she’d be able to get in before the crush so her little guy isn’t too traumatized, and it reminded me of the time I brought my niece to see the Easter Bunny. In a mall. In Texas.
I was visiting Mark & Mare, and got to babysit Em while they were at work … and since Mare was very preggers at the time, Em must have been two or three. In any case, since we were particularly bored, we hopped in the car for a trip to the mall, where they had (gasp!) the EASTER BUNNY!!!! So I asked Em if she wanted to sit in his lap and get a picture and SHE WAS ALL FOR IT.
As an aside, how dingbatticus does it make me that when I looked in the guide for the metroplex and saw there were 14 TGIFridays I asked my brother where the hell was this mall, anyway? Seeing as it must have been the largest freaking mall on the entire freaking continent! To which he responded (gently) that no, the metroplex is not a mall, but rather the (rather) large area of Texas that comprises Dallas and Fort Worth. Makum sense, kemosabe? Der.
Back to the story; little did I know that almost every child on the face of the planet is all for it when it comes to talking about sitting on the Easter Bunny’s lap, and standing in line to get on said lap, and talking to all the other excited little kiddies chattering non-stop about bunnylapage.
Right up until it is actually their turn to sit on the Lap o’ Bunny.
Then. THEN, my friends, the abject terror sets in, and their little faces scream, “WTFisTHAT?!?!” in terrified baby talk, which sounds, to adults, much like, “Waaaah! NonononononoNONONONONOOOOOOOOO!! Wannagohooooome! MoooomMEEEEE!” Etc., etc., and so on and so forth in the absolute blue murder range.
Yeah; have I mentioned I’m an aunt? No kids of my own to learn this lesson from. Oh, no! Luckily for Em, my ears stopped ringing and my eyes stopped bleeding just in time for me to witness her transformation from sunny, well-mannered cherub to snarling, spitting, feral, wild cat-child thing.
Before my eyes she sprouted claws and teeth and basically turned into Baby Wolverine as she clawed her way to freedom up and over that (poor, poor) Easter Bunny’s shoulder. I, of course, stood horrified off to the side, completely unwilling to step in and save the now gibbering in horror (or pain … could have been pain) Easter Bunny … or the still screaming were-child. WTF indeed.
Who was this child? Not my sweet-natured little Emmy, apple of Aunty Lisa’s eye. No way. Who stole my niece?!? And switched her with this … this … demon child? Mare’s going to kill me. And to make it worse: the football moms. Arggh, the football moms. The (Don't Mess With) Texas Football Moms (sorry TXFM’s, but you know what you’re like). Anyplace else they’d be soccer moms, and I can handle soccer moms … but Texas Football Moms? OMGyouwin.
They were all shooting daggers at me with their eyes anyway, but as soon as I opened my North East accented mouth and started talking my Texas-twanging little niece down from her panic-high the gig was up; I was an unfit adult in this child’s life (I could have sworn I heard, “Get that baby away from that barbarian, girls!”) So I grabbed Emmy and fled.
So, what did I learn?