Yesterday I had to take Hannah and Brandon into the mall. Yes, you read that correctly. The mall. With kids. In December. Two of those three are on the “things that make Jenny curse” list – I’ll let you decide which two.
We were there because Brandon HAD to have a white button down shirt for his choir concert the next night and I had been avoiding this trip like the plague for weeks. Shopping with my son is like one big scoop of annoying with frustration sprinkles on top.
“Hey buddy, here are some shoes that look cool.”
“Yeah, but they are too shiny.”
“Brandon, here are some nice jeans in your size.”
“Yeah, but the pockets are fancy.”
“Brandon, how about I kick you in the rear end unless you agree to this shirt?”
“Yeah, but then you would be a horrible mother.”
So, on this day we went into four or five stores looking for one boys white button down – size 10 that was just right. Only it wasn’t Brandon being picky this time. It was me. You see, we were not just in any old mall. No. We were in a mall that, well, how should I say this…didn’t cater to boys who wear white button downs.
Anywho – after much grumbling and complaining (from me) we finally found our shirt and headed towards the exit. I was tired from the day and the shopping and grumpy doesn’t really begin to describe my mood. And that’s when it happened.
Hannah spotted it first. The saddest place on earth next to glue factories and clown colleges. Yes, I’m talking about the mall petshop. She begged to go in. She had been dragged to every boys department in the mall and she looked at me so pathetically that I agreed. As I followed her in, I saw something that instantly made me forget how horrible I had been feeling and forced the sound, “Awwww…” out of my body. People…I don’t make that sound. Ever.
His name was Mr. Puddles – at least it should be. He was a chocolate brown long- haired daschund puppy with light brown paws and eyes that make you tilt your head and raise your eyebrows at the same time. He must be mine. Nevermind the fact that this would be absolutely the worst time EVER to get a dog, or the fact that my husband would probably not let either one of us in the house, or the fact that I know better than to support petshops and the puppy mills they probably come from. He looked at me and said, “Hello lady. You are mine and you know it.”
I think he’ll look awfully cute in my stocking. But we might need a place to crash Christmas night. Any takers?