Bean and I went to McDonald's this weekend for lunch last week, just the two of us. I got her a Happy Meal.
See, I'm doin' everything I can lately to earn Good Mama points because frankly, I'm not a lot of fun to be around these days, and I figure a few months of outright buyin' her love with sugar, salt, fat, Disney TV and about 4 million rounds of Candyland at which I let her cheat blatantly and never say anything like, "YOU CAN'T JUST DIG THROUGH THE STACK AND PULL OUT THE ICE CREAM FAIRY EVERY TIME, BEAN. THAT'S NOT THE WAY YOU PLAY! FINE THEN, I'M NOT PLAYING WITH YOU ANYMORE! HMPH!" won't kill either of us, and maybe it'll hold my place in her heart for awhile so the real me can climb back in and reassume my old position when the steel rod finally comes back outta of my you-know-what and I can smile a smile at her that doesn't look like there's rubber cement and a painful jolt of electricity involved.
(I miss bein' Mrs. Nice Guy, people. But havin' a newborn in the house makes me a little bit tense and testy.)
Anyway, the Happy Meal came with a miniature Barbie-ish doll wearin' roller-skates, and this diminutive girl on wheels was proudly sportin' what amounted to a molded plastic bra with short sleeves and the micro-est micro-mini I have ever lain my eyes on. It was actually just a ruffled belt, truth be told. She was showing both her carefully sculpted plastic belly button and about 9 miles of bare leg.
But don't you just know that of COURSE she had on all of her safety equipment, includin' her helmet and a pair of sassy kneepads.
Well, safety first, y'all! We wouldn't want to give kids a toy that might subliminally teach them roller-skatin' without your kneepads (despite the fact that every other square inch of your body was exposed to God-n-everybody) was okay, would we?
We were eatin' our lunch sittin' elbow to elbow with an older gentleman, and we'd been making polite banter with him for a few minutes by the time Bean pulled Skatin' Skirtless Skatin' Scandal Barbie outta her bag, all conversation halted and we both did a double take at the doll, although prolly for entirely different reasons, I'll grant you.
I grabbed Barbie and looked Bean straight in the eye and said, "Bean, before you start playin' with this doll, let me tell you sumpm. SHE DOESN'T HAVE ON NEARLY ENOUGH CLOTHES. Her attire is COMPLETELY INAPPROPRIATE, and her Mama and Daddy would be horrified if they knew she was out in public lookin' like that."
The old man beside us then proceded to laugh so loud and so hard that I thought he was gonna fall off his teal-and-purple molded plastic McChair and onto the brown tile McFloor leavin' me no other option but to locate and employ the McDefibrillator on him.
Days later, Bean's preschool class had Pajama Day, and she got to go to school wearin' her little The Children's Place 100% cotton, 100% modest long-sleeved pajamas with the musical notes and ballerinas all over 'em, the ensemble complemented by her pink elastic-ankled fuzzy slippers.
As we were collecting her back pack and puttin' on her coat that morning, on our way out the door to deliver her to school, Bean looked at me and worriedly wondered, "Mama! What is Daddy gonna say when he finds out I went out in PUGLICK in my bajamas? He's gonna be horriblefied!"
Well, at least somebody takes me seriously, hmmm?