If you clicked on the title expecting a typical holiday story of love, peace and hope, this entry might not be for you. If you’re one of the many readers who enjoy it when I make myself look like a jackass, please read on…
A few days ago, our latest in a series of diaper bags needed to be put out to pasture. My wife, being the selfless, thrifty woman she is, hates spending money on herself, even in instances where it would genuinely improve her daily life. Consequently, she can’t bring herself to spend more then 30-40 dollars on a diaper bag. While her heart is in the right place, the result has been a series of crappy bags that fall apart after a few months of daily use.
While my son James is now a year and a half old, and will soon be out of diapers, you parents out there know that when you have kids, there’s always a ton of stuff you need to carry around with you like a hobo. Snacks, sippy cups, changes of clothes, sunblock, first aid stuff… you get the point.
So after this latest bag bought the farm, I decided to be a good husband, and buy her a good quality bag. So we went to her favorite upscale bag designer and picked out the nicest one they had. She loved it because it had all the features she wanted, but still looked more like a purse than a diaper bag, and can even be used as one when James is old enough to carry his own shit.
Like most chicks would be, she was excited about a new bag from her favorite designer, and I was happy for her… that is until we remembered that she wouldn't be using it a whole lot because she isn’t a stay-at-home parent… I am.
I just bought myself a purse.
On the positive side, I’ll be the envy of the moms at the toddler park this summer.
Fast forward to the next day, we took part in the sacred tradition of standing in line for 45 minutes in the middle of a crowded shopping mall, waiting to hand our beloved child over to a hideous giant bunny-monster, and take pictures of his adorable, terrified face.
OK, maybe I’m being melodramatic, but I really have to question what’s going through our minds here. The family in front of us in line, who had a son about James’ age waited almost an hour, only to have their kid take one look at the Easter Bunny, freak the f*ck out, and run the other direction, never to return.
Fortunately, James has a stronger constitution than that, and didn’t seem particularly phased by the whole thing. Just to be sure though, I didn’t even attempt to put him on the giant rodent’s lap, and instead held him myself while I cozied up to the long-eared abomination instead. I even had to put my arm around the failed Dr. Moreau experiment so we’d all be in frame.
While not scared, James did have an issue with sitting still for more than three seconds, so as I held him, I was also petting his belly to try and settle him down.
And in that moment, I learned something about myself.
I do not have the ability to pet unilaterally.
As I was lovingly comforting my son with my right hand, I was doing the exact same thing to the Easter Bunny’s back and shoulders with my left.
We didn’t say anything, but we both knew what had happened.
I’m struggling to find a moral, or some kind of take-home message here, but I guess if I were to pick out some sort of life lesson in all this, it would be that when your job entails hanging out in the mall in a bunny suit, scaring children, don’t be surprised if a stocky bearded man with a purse starts petting you.
You were kind of asking for it.
Happy Easter Everyone!