Espen and I had a magical time at Ecstatic Dance. Most of the time was spent on a giant pile of pillows with a host of other fairy children, pretending to be trains, boats and anything else that would justify scooting around in a line of pillows while adult children fluttered about them pretending to be sexy unicorns and what not.
We then perambulated to the nearest chai shop and toy store. Namely, Finnigan's. Which is also a magical place filled with wonders beyond any 3 year old's wildest dreams. Espen has some pretty good ones, so when we walked in, he immediately requested either amphibious cars or flying cars. Both, preferably.
The toy guys were suitably stumped, but only for a moment.
"Yeah," said one guy who looked like a young, geeky Hagrid, "We had an amphibious vehicle, but now we only have submarines that run in your bathtub and water helicopters."
Espen looked provoked. Once he saw the water helicopters though, he started getting excited.
"Mama!" he said, grabbing my hand and lunging towards the display, "They have biplanes too! Amphibious ones! I want both of them."
I kindly demurred much to his everlasting dismay. He began to bargain.
"Well, mama, how about I have one now and one at home?" Why indeed.
"Listen, Espen, you can either have one helicopter or the submarine."
"Submarine."
"Ok. Let's pay for it."
All was well until I turned my back to hand over the credit card.
And he saw the robot.
Really, it was more like some possessed remote control car that could had wheels on every imaginable surface so you could flip it over, on its side, make it spin somersaults or pretend it was a merry go round from the simple toggle of a switch.
It's an oddly beautiful and horrifying thing to watch your child realize that there is shit in the world that you have not told him about that is BLOODY AMAZING.
Espen looked at me long and hard. Then he looked at the possessed car thing and squealed.
"Mama! I WANT THAT ROBOT CAR SO BADLY!"
And he meant it too. I could feel it in every fibre of the kid's soul.
And you know, I wanted to give it to him.
But not yet.
I still want him to get lost in a mud puddle instead of an ipad. To be fascinated by a bunch of rocks because he doesn't have anything more flashy to grab his attention. There will be plenty of time for him to marvel at the technology of the 21st century, but for now, I want to keep his immediate possessions firmly rooted in the natural world.
Soapbox aside, I said no. And led him to a different part of the store after he had a turn at the controls.
We stood in the corner by the die cast cars and ambulances, and for a moment, peace reigned.
Until he had to try just one more time.
"Mommy. Can't I PLEASE have that robot?"
"Sorry, Wesp. Not now. When you get older."
He stood there looking at me, silently.
I looked back. And then down at the pool forming at my feet.
And I became a robot.
Pee.
Floor.
Wesp.
People.
Do something.
Pick up child.
Hold child tightly against body to stop pee.
Walk calmly but quickly from store.
Do NOT look back.
And that, folks, is the human stress response in 10 seconds flat.
Espen wanted his submarine.
There was no way in hell I could process that kind of benevolence whilst covered in pee and fleeing the scene of public urination.
"No way are you getting that submarine when you just peed all over the store."
He screamed like I had ripped his liver out and dropped to the pavement, writhing in fury.
So half walking, half dragging my furious pee soaked child towards the car, I tried to get my higher level cognition back online.
"Why did you pee on the floor, Espen? You didn't even give me a chance to find a place for you to potty!"
"I want my submariiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnneeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!"
Sigh.
I understand now, weeks later, that excitement over robots can trump the evacuation impulse in 3 year olds. But then, I didn't. Then I was just a blindsided mom covered in pee trying to regain perspective.
But now, I am happy to report that Espen has a submarine and I have only been peed on twice since then.
To be continued.
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