What's the Difference Between a Pitbull and a 4 year-old?: Hannah Montana Chapstick

There’s not much more that I’d rather do less at 10 o’clock on a Sunday morning than pack up the kids and head off to a 4-year old’s birthday party. But, unfortunately, it’s how Todd and I spend many a weekend morning. Evie’s school has the politically correct rule that if you invite one, you invite them all. So we’re invited to every single, mind-numbing party. My kid’s been in every germ infested ball-pit in Northern New Jersey, licked every ringworm flavored blue gym mat in the county, and picked the cheese off of pizza from every pizzeria in the state.

I’ll paint you a picture of pretty much every party we’ve taken Evie to. It’s 10:30AM. The sound of children screaming and the pitter-patter of their sweaty little feet echo off the walls. Abbie looks from my face to Todd’s face and back again. “Where the hell am I?” her little eyes shout. “What the fuck is this hell you’ve taken me to?” There’s a cluster of parents not watching their children. And then there’s Todd and I, now accompanied by Abbie in her stroller, off in the corner talking about how much cooler we are than all the other parents. Seriously. We’re total nerds. We admit that. And we’re so much cooler than every parent there. Naturally, this is also an indication of how much cooler Evie is than any of the other kids at the party. But, obviously, this goes without saying. Anyway, the kids run around like crazy for an hour and then we herd them into a party room that’s half the occupancy limit for the number of people at the party. And we feed them pizza and M&Ms and cheese puffs and sugary juice. And then we shove cake in their face and let them suck that down until they’re drooling at the mouth and their eyes are glazed over. They’re inches away from a sugar coma and that’s when the tension rises. Parents start yelling and kids start crying. One boy will hit another boy. Some cry-baby girl, the same cry-baby girl each party, will whine that she didn’t get the color flower she wanted from the cake. My kid always tattles.

Because that’s who she is.

So last Sunday, Todd and I are in our corner analyzing how much more we rock than everyone else in the room and Evie comes up to us. She’s excited. Very excited. Her brain was definitely at work. Uh-oh.

With her hands fisted onto her hips and her feet spread in a powerful stance, “I’m Cash Register Girl! Give me monies!” Todd and I just looked at each other. I prayed that no one heard her. Because OBVIOUSLY I did something wrong that my child would even come up with such an idea. What must the very uncool parents think of me now?!? (Oh who am I kidding? I couldn’t give a shit what those losers think of my parenting. You should see their kids in action. Real gems.)

Quickly, I reached into my pocket and pulled out pretend monies and slapped it into her open palm.

“No. Give me real monies!” At least she’s no dummy.