Who knew that I would say the words, “It’s not a party unless somebody pukes!” as Moms and children left a play date that I had at my house for 7 toddlers last week.
I should it was not going to go well during our pre-play date preparatory chat. I said to my 2 yo, “You know that when your friends come over, they are going to want to play with your toys. And it will be nice of you to let them do that.”
She looked at me right in the eye and said, “No.”
I should have known when the first child walked in and tentatively reached for a doll at the top of the doll tower and my previously angelic child ran over in a feral rage and screamed, “No, Mine!” and snatched the doll away from the poor unsuspecting child.
I should have known when her behavior continued, unrelentingly, despite some pleading on my part to try and convince her to be a normal human being, and some quality time sitting upstairs to think about things a bit. Her, mostly.
She was required to return each stolen toy, albeit begrudgingly. Trains, planes, blocks, purses, toy phones, toys she didn’t even know she had and toys that she had never once played with in her entire life. Nothing seemed to escape her notice. All of it, suddenly, precious to her.
And lord help the child that even looked in the direction of the baby doll that her Grammy had brought her from the American Girl store in Chicago.
The other children began to clutch toys tighter to their chests as she came at them wild-eyed. They began to look very frightened.
And then the play date was coming to an end. One of the kids had a wardrobe malfunction. There may have been some excessive spinning in the spinning chair and a subsequent strawberry and carrot muffin puke-o-rama. It could have happened. It could have happened to any of us.
So the child was in need of some clothes and, well, my toddler happened to be the only person in my house who wore the same size clothes as him. So, in my defense, when I was rummaging through her stuff I wasn’t actually thinking about anything other than picking out something comfortable that wasn’t a dress or rainbow-colored tights for the poor little boy to wear.
And, unfortunately, I picked wrong.
I made the horrible mistake of choosing The Monkey Sweatshirt. The Monkey Sweatshirt that she had actually never worn in her life because it was her brother’s and was still too big for her. The Monkey Sweatshirt that she often saw tucked in her drawer, and asked to wear, but then I would ask her to choose a different one. The Monkey Sweatshirt that was obviously coveted in a way that I did not understand until it was much too late.
So when the little boy, her best friend in the whole world, placed the monkey sweatshirt on his body, that was the moment when my child lost her ever-loving shit.
Children had come into her house and had played with her toys!
Someone had looked in the general direction of her baby that Grammy had brought her from the American Girl Store!
And now there the Monkey Sweatshirt goes!
The Monkey Sweatshirt that she has loved more than all of the others and The Monkey Sweatshirt for which she has been waiting patiently to be Big Enough to wear!
There it goes right out the door and she had never ever gotten to wear it!
It was dramatic and our guests flew out of the house like it was on fire.
She slept then, like a person in our particular family sleeps after a storm. Or after not getting their way to a degree that induces narcolepsy. She slept for FOUR HOURS. And when she woke up the first thing she said to me was “My like that monkey sweatshirt. My cry.”
“Yes, honey.” And then I changed the subject because, even then, tears were beginning to form in her eyes.
But then, because I am not very bright, I asked, “Did you like having your friends over to play today, honey?”