An Internal (mostly) Dialogue Concerning My Angel Tree Experience

Today is the day! I am so excited! Gonna teach my baby about kindness, gonna get him thinking of others! Woot woot! Now, where the heck is the tag that has my Angel kid’s information? Maybe I left it in the car… No, not in the car. Maybe it’s with the rest of the mail on the bar… No, not there. Maybe I stuffed it in the diaper bag after church… Nope. Maybe I don’t need it! I know it said he’s 15, and he wears a Large shirt, and his pant size was a 36…something. What was the other number? Well, the devil, I need that tag after all. 

(20 minutes later) THE TAG!!! Hallelujah! 

“Andy! Are you ready to go help me shop for our Angel Tree boy? Let’s go!”

(to the tune of a conga line) Mama time with Andy! Mama time with Andy! 

Hmm… I should make this time really special since I hardly ever get time with just Andy anymore. And it’s Happy Hour at Sonic. Let’s get slushes! Yum yum yum!

“Andy, do you want a slush? What flavor?”

…(Willie Nelson style) On the road again! Just can’t wait to get on the road again!

…Holy smoke, what’s up with all this traffic? UGH, we’re not even moving! I wish I had a big truck—I would totally off-road it right about now… Ah, it’s a wreck. 

(15 minutes later) Whew! That wasn’t as bad as I thought it was going to be! Thank goodness because stores close early on Sundays, so we don’t have time to be sitting in… WHAT THE HECK??? We just got out of stand-still traffic! What is going on?...Another wreck? Are you kidding me? Ain’t nobody got time for this!

(10 minutes later) Wow, that was a mess. I better be extra careful. Obviously, people are having trouble driving today.

Okay, now that we are in the clear traffic-wise, I better make sure Andy understands the whole Angel Tree thing. Here goes:

“Andy, do you understand what we’re doing today? We are buying Christmas presents for this boy whose family can’t afford to buy him presents. Are you going to help me pick him out some cool stuff? Alright, awesome!”

Arrive at Store #1:

Whoa, it is really crowded… Great, they’ve moved all the toys to the front of the store. No way to avoid them. Power through, power through, power…

“No, Andy, we’re not shopping for you today. We’re shopping for our Angel Tree boy. You have lots of toys at home. This boy doesn’t have much, and he needs clothes. We need to focus on getting him some new clothes… No, we have a BOY. That’s a dress…. No, he’s a teenager, so he doesn’t need an Elmo… Well, that’s a nice shirt but he needs a shirt with long sleeves… No, he needs long sleeves…No, that one doesn’t have long sleeves either… Long sleeves, Andy…”

Kill me. Kill me now.

“Okay, Andy! Time to find him some pants!... Hmm, I don’t see his size…”

No, no, no, no, no! Don’t tell me they don’t have his size! That means going to another store! Sigh. Well, it’s due, so I guess that’s what we’re going to have to do. Brace yourself for the toys again…

“No, Andy, we’re not shopping for you today. Remember- we’re thinking of OTHERS today… No, you can’t have the Transformer… Because we’re not shopping for you today; we’re shopping for our Angel Tree boy… No, you can’t have the candy either… Because you’ve already gotten a slush, AND we’re not shopping for you today… Andy, do you even know what that is? It’s coffee. You don’t drink coffee… No, you cannot try coffee… ANDY! we’re NOT shopping for YOU!”

I do not think this is working. This whole experience is supposed to be teaching him gratitude and thinking of others. I am not sure what I’m doing wrong. Maybe I need to explain how Angel Tree works again…

(on our way to store #2) “Andy, did you understand what I told you about the Angel Tree? We picked this boy’s name off the tree so that we can help him have a happy Christmas. He needs some new clothes to keep him warm this winter, and his family can’t afford to buy him what he needs. So it’s our job to find him the things he needs today. Do you understand?... Okay, good! So are we shopping for YOU today?...That’s right! It’s not Andy’s turn today. It’s this boy’s turn. And look! We’re here! Let’s see if we can find him some pants!”

Store #2:

 “You need to tee tee? Okay, let’s go find a bathroom!”

Please, let it be clean! Please let it be clean! Please, let it be clean!... Okay, not too bad. Alright, let’s do this! 

“Andy, don’t touch the…!”

Too late. Well, he’s current on all his shots, so maybe he won’t get sick. We’ll just wash those hands really, really well… Done! Let’s do this!

“Alright, so we need to find pants… Yes, that is cute, but we’re not shopping for our brothers right now.”

Man, that’s super cute. And I haven’t finished Christmas shopping for them yet. And he IS thinking of others, so maybe it’s not so bad. And again, super cute. Oh, blast it all, let’s get it!

“Okay, okay, we can get that for your brothers. Put it in the bag…You want to get the baby that, too? I don’t think he really needs another hat… Okay, fine, put it in.”

Aw, he’s so sweet! Look at him, all picking stuff out for his brothers!... 

Uh oh. I think I blurred the line. Here we go again…

“No, Andy, you don’t need another superhero shirt… Because you just got a new one last week… No, you don’t need that either. Remember, we’re not shopping for you right now… No, we’re not shopping for you right now… No, we’re not shopping for you right now… Andy, what am I going to say? That’s right—WE’RE NOT SHOPPING FOR YOU RIGHT NOW!”

$50 for jeans??? They’ve lost their mind. Guess we’re going to have to try one more store. I don’t know if I have it in me…

Store #3:

“You’ve got to go to the bathroom again? We just went at the last store!... Okay, let’s go!”

Holy smoke, this does not look sanitary. And it smells awful. Ugh. Why does he always have to go in public bathrooms? I HATE public bathrooms!

“Andy, don’t touch ANYTHNG in here, okay?... You’ve got to what? Nooooooooo, are you sure you can’t wait?”

Line the seat, line the seat, line the seat… Okay, I think that’s safe. 

SERIOUSLY??? Did he just knock every bit of my lining into the toilet and sit his naked behind on that thing? No, he did not! Gross! I’m going to have to bathe this kid in scalding water when we get home. Oh, yuck, and his clothes too. Those pants are dragging on that nasty floor. Ew! 

“Okay, let’s wash your hands. Let me help you with the paper towels since you can’t reach.”

Ugh, what is this on my hands? NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. What IS that? And it’s on the handle? What? Surely that’s not… OH HEAVENS, it is. That is POOP on the paper towel dispenser handle. 

That is A STRANGER’S POOP and it’s ON MY HAND! AUGH!!!!! CUT IT OFF, CUT IT OFF, CUT THIS DEFILED HAND OFF OF ME AND THROW IT OUT!!!!!! OH, I’M GOING TO DIE! BLEH! BLEH! I NEED TO PUKE! OH, CRAP, I CAN’T PUKE IN THAT TOILET—IT’S DISGUSTING!”

“No, Andy, I’m fine. There’s just… MUD on the handle and it got on my hand. DON’T TOUCH IT!!!!!”

Happy thoughts, happy thoughts, happy thoughts, happy thoughts… More soap, hot water, more soap again, and soap a fourth time... Now, I need to dry them—NO, DON’T TOUCH THAT! Jean swipe will have to do. DEAR LORD, GET ME OUT OF THIS BATHROOM!!! 

“Excuse me, Miss. That bathroom needs some attention. There is… Well, let’s just say it’s mud because that would make me feel MUCH better, MUD smeared all over the bottom of the handle of the paper towel dispenser. Please, can you have someone clean that up before another unsuspecting soul gets… MUD… on her hand? Thank you.”

“Come on, Andy, let’s get these pants and get out of here!... Andy? Where--? Get out of the clothes, please… Andy, get out of the clothes!...Please don’t unfold things. You can just point if you want me to look at something, you don’t need to actually pick it up…What did I JUST SAY??? Please DO NOT unfold the clothes!”

Ooh, finally—JEANS! Let’s grab them and go! 36x34… Hmm… Come out, come out, wherever you are! 36x30, 36x32. 34x32… WHERE ARE THE 36x34’s???

“You need to WHAT? No, no, no. We just did that. We are NOT going back in there… Andy, it CAN’T be an emergency! We were JUST IN THERE!”

No, Lord. You wouldn’t do this to me. You wouldn’t send me back in there when I’m just trying to do this good deed for this Angel boy, just trying to do some intentional kindness-building in my child. Surely, Lord. Surely You wouldn’t make me go back to that bathroom. PLEEEEEEEEEEASE, LORD, SEND ME TO LIVE IN A HUT IN AFRICA, BUT DON’T SEND ME INTO THAT BATHROOM!!!

“Okay, Andy, I hear you. Let’s go… PLEASE don’t touch anything, and PLEASE don’t knock my toilet-liner into the toilet bowl.”

Let me just check out the situation over here… I cannot believe it has not been cleaned! Did I not tell that woman that it was DIRE that someone take care of this???... Oh, no. What is that kid doing? Oh, NO. What just happened here?!? And HOW?!?! 

NONONONONONONONONONONONONONONO!!! I think this bathroom is cursed. We’ve got to get out of here! 

“Don’t move! I will help you! PLEASE don’t move!”

Ew, ew, ew! Good grief, what am I supposed to do with these jeans while I take care of this MESS? These jeans are cursed. I should just chuck them into the poop and be done with them.

“Andy, do NOT touch me!... DON’T TOUCH me!... I SAID DON’T TOUCH ME!!!!”

God, please don’t let him touch me! I will have a meltdown right here in Poop City if those hands touch me. Please, God, please!

“LOTS of soap, Andy… Okay, let’s wash them again, just to be sure… One more time!... Okay, now dry them on your pants. And let’s go!”

His pants aren’t any cleaner than the paper towel dispenser. I seriously hope I still have antibacterial soap in the car or I’m gonna have to amputate his hands before he can get in… 

I need a manager. Ooh, there’s someone. Maybe they can call a manager over here…

“Yes, I do need help. Your bathroom needs MAJOR attention. MAJOR. It’s a total poop-fest in there. Wear a hazmat suit when you go, but PLEASE have it taken care of… Thank you, sir.”

Okay, let’s pay for the jeans and get the heck out of Dodge.

“No, Andy, we’re not going to look at the toys today… Because we’re not shopping for you today!... What do you mean, I never do anything for you?!?! SON, I JUST CLEANED UP YOUR POOP MESS, AND YOU HAVE A SLUSH IN THE CAR! NOW GET IN YOUR CAR SEAT AND TELL ME WHAT YOU’VE LEARNED ABOUT KINDNESS!!!”

Don't Judge My Wal-Mart Brats

I used to be a real Judgy Judgerson.

I would stand there in that Wal-Mart checking line and shake my head at the screaming preschoolers begging for toys or candy and screaming at their mama for saying no. I used to roll my eyes at the bartering mamas trying to bribe their way into a calmer shopping experience, or, worse yet, the ones who finally gave in and bought the toys and candy. I used to think that if those mamas had done a better job teaching their kids manners and that “no means no” or maybe even (Heaven forbid!) doling out a spanking every once in a while, then none of us would have to stand here listening to their bratty kids throw temper tantrums in public.

Oh, it was nice and green on the childless side, where all my hypothetical future children were angels who obeyed my every sweet, soft-spoken command. 

Let me tell you—my real-life children are not perfect angels (no matter what Grannie tells you!), and my sweet, soft-spoken commands are ignored more often than not. And even though my ‘no’ really does mean ‘no’, and I try my best to both model and implicitly teach good manners, and I dole out spankings and time outs daily, and I do my ABSOLUTE BEST to be a good parent, my kids still pitch fits. Loud, long, ridiculous, scream-fest fits, complete with tears and flailing. 

Yes. It’s true. MY kids are the new Wal-Mart brats you hear screaming for toys and candy. 

And don’t think for a minute that I am not aware of the looks and eye-rolling of the people around me that get to witness the full onslaught of original sin that manifests itself as soon as we walk in the door of any given retailer. I am aware that we are ruining your shopping experience. I know you think I should just throw in the towel and try again when the kids are better rested, or better fed, or strapped head to toe in electronics, snacks, and teddy bears. I know that you think you could do a better job, did a better job way back when, or will do a better job when you have kids of your own. But let me warn you—all that judgment may come back to bite you.

You see, I am convinced that the vast majority of mess that my kids pull is in direct response to my judging another parent when their child exhibited that exact same behavior at some point in the past. (All other mess is a direct result of payback for everything I put my own parents through.) It’s funny, in a I-want-to-slit-my-own-wrists-kind-of-way, how life is circular like that, and “what goes around comes around” is an absolutely true statement, not just a random threat people like to throw out.

So, just be warned, you might want to hold your tongue and stop your self-righteous thoughts in their tracks when you start aiming judgment at me for the following:

1.      Refusing to let Andy walk.

Yeah, I know he looks like he’s 5. But you know what there, Judgy Judy? He’s 3 ½. Would you like to know what 3 ½ year-olds do when they’re allowed to walk instead of ride in the buggy? I do because I was foolish enough to try it once. They pull things off the shelves and put them in your basket without you realizing it so that when you make it to the register, there’s an additional $100 worth of CRAP to sort through and put back.  They also run down the aisles ahead of you so that they can hide in the clothes rack and make you search the entire department looking for them. When they do actually walk with you, you can bet your bottom dollar that they will be hell-bent on being FIRST, which means that they will manage to always, always, ALWAYS be in the exact spot that allows them to get clipped in the heel with the buggy wheel. And when you’re stopped, they will have to stand on the bottom rungs whilst performing buggy gymnastics. If you’re super lucky, they’ll manage to tip the whole basket over, pinning them underneath and suspending the other kid who’s strapped inside in mid-air. Oh, yeah—it’s happened to us. 

2.      Allowing Andy to walk.

Yeppers, it’s a long, hard, 2-way street of torture. If he walks, it’s hideous. But if he rides, it’s equally hideous. So while yes, I see you eyeballing me while my kid runs helter-skelter down the aisles screaming, “Find me, Mama!”, let me enlighten you on what to expect if a 3 ½ year-old rides in the basket: They hang over the edge of the buggy at precarious angles, occasionally managing to get their head clonked while turning onto a new aisle. Sometimes, they hold their arms out whilst leaning over the edge, much like good ol’ Leo in Titanic, sweeping items off the shelves onto the floor for Mama to get to pick up. When they do sit correctly, it’s only to rifle through the products in the basket with them, doing cool stuff like building towers with your can goods so that every single can looks like it went through a tornado by the time it arrives home, therefore losing the ability to stack neatly in the pantry. Or better yet, they’ll wave those tampons around and ask at full volume, “What are these for, Mama?” And don’t you dare put it past them to actually OPEN any given product if curiosity or hunger gets the best of them. 

3.      Not having my heart melted when Finnick says “Mama, I need you!” and bursts into tears.

I know, I know. He’s adorable with those big eyes and dimples, and he looks just pitiful crying those giant, crocodile tears. And all he wants in the whole, wide world is his Mama. I know you just cannot believe that I won’t pick that poor baby up and cuddle him til the cows come home. Here’s why: He has “needed Mama” every second of every day for about a month now. And he has cried giant, crocodile tears about 700 times already just since breakfast. But right now, at this exact moment, we need groceries. Or batteries. Or what-the-heck-ever I came to this store for. I assure you, I did not bring the kids out to Wal-Mart for kicks. And since there are 6 people in our house other than this adorable little sob story, I’m going to have to finish up this errand before I rock and cuddle and sing lullabies. So when you see me hunched over like Quasimodo pushing that basket while hugging that baby, understand that truly, this is all I can give at the moment. Be grateful, Judy, that I can’t give more. Because I want to give you a piece of my mind right about now.

4.      Not dropping everything to take Andy to the restroom when he yells it’s an emergency.

Judy, Judy, Judy. Poor, naïve Judy. It’s not an emergency. In fact, he does not need to go at all. Do you know how I know this? Because he’s my child. I live with him. Do you know what, “I need to poo poo!” means? It means, “Mama, this is the most BORING thing in the entire world, and I am ready to be done.” So when I calmly continue looking at women’s clothes, it’s not because I am a terrible parent. There are other things that make me a terrible parent, but this isn’t it. It’s because I have visited every public bathroom in the city with this child, and I now know exactly what signs I need to look for when he legitimately needs to pee, poop, vomit, or blow his nose. And since I have zero clothes left in my entire closet that are not covered in one of the excrements listed above, I am finally going to finish the process of purchasing new garments for myself so that I can go into public without being JUDGED for being a disgusting slob fest. 

5.      Bringing my kids shopping empty-handed.

I am aware that today’s culture says kids need to have a toy, or a snack, or some sort of electronic device at all times, especially if I want them to be behaved during something boring like shopping. But you want to know what I’ve discovered? Once you’ve started something, you’ve got to keep it going every time, without fail. So yeah, we used to do the snack/toy/Angry Bird thing. Until the fateful day that our trip was only going to last 5 minutes so I said no one needed a snack/toy/phone for such a short jaunt. Good gravy, Judy, you should have heard the fussing! The screaming! The crying! The why-why-why-why-why’s! It had become a necessity because shopping had been equated with goldfish/toys/AngryBird in their precious little minds, and now I OWED THEM those things! Heck to the no. I am going to be living with these little darlings for a very long time, and I have no intention of establishing a precedent that they will only behave if bribed. So sorry, customers, my kids are going to sing, and beg, and fuss, and cry, and giggle, and point out every round food that resembles a ball because they’re not buried in my phone or a box of animal crackers. I am going to deal with it. I guess you’ll have to also. And if you offer up a sucker in the midst of one of their epic tantrums just to “keep them quiet”, I am not afraid to go all Dikembe Mutombo on you. 

6.      Loading my kids up with snacks while we shop. 

Another double-edge sword. No, I’m not going to break out the Cheerios every, single time we go to the store. But sometimes, we’re going to be here awhile because we’re out of everything but Oxygen. And you know what—these days, I feel that a snack is about the only thing that’s going to allow us to survive this. I am aware that we are leaving a little cereal trail behind us as we go, and we’ve wiped blue sucker all over the basket, and we’ve probably dropped a sippy cup with a mangled lid that resulted in a small ocean on two separate aisles. I’m really sorry, store employees. I will gladly clean up the messes we’ve made and let you take care of the shopping list, if you’d rather trade. I’ll bet big money that you’ll be happy to trade back within the first 10 minutes.

DO NOT EVER SHOP WITH CHILDREN, Part 2

You’d think I would have learned after the dreadful grocery trip, but no. I went on a Wal-Mart excursion the very next day. I only needed one thing—laundry detergent—so really, I could have had the hubster pick that up on his way home from work. Or I could have gone after the kids were in bed that night. Or we could have worn dirty clothes. Anything would have been better than what I chose to do, which was drag the kids along.

To make it more interesting for them, I decided to work a couple of fun little extras into our trip. One was letting Andy bring the money he had been saving up from his good behavior incentives to spend on the toy aisle, and the other was letting both boys get haircuts in the Wal-Mart salon. In theory, these ideas sounded great. I could imagine the big smiles from my freshly groomed sons, dressed in sparkling clean clothes, showing off their new purchases to Dad when he got home whilst telling him how lucky they were to have such a fun mama. 

Here’s what really happened:

Everybody and their sister was at Wal-Mart vying over the dwindling school supplies, so the parking lot was jam packed. That meant that we had to park way out by the Garden Center. Now, if you’re going to ignore my advice to never shop with children at all, at least heed this: Do not ever park near the Garden Center when you’re shopping with children. You'll see why later.

Since we had to pass the toy section on the way to the salon, we opted to take care of Andy’s “prize” first. We had counted his money prior to leaving the house, so we knew he had $2 and some change to spend. I just assumed I’d lead him to the little dollar section and he’d pick some random piece of junk he couldn’t live without. After all, he managed to find hundreds of treasures to beg for in that very section every time we came shopping. But not this time. This time, he already knew exactly what he wanted to spend his $2 on. He wanted a remote control airplane. 

For $2. 

I tried to explain to him that $2 was not enough to purchase a remote control airplane, but he refused to believe me. Even after I showed him multiple remote control toys—all with $20+ price tags—he still insisted we keep looking. Down every aisle. Twice. Just in case. 

I told him that he could save his money until he had enough, or he could opt for a cheaper toy. He told me I could just pay the difference. 

Our super-fun, celebratory toy-shopping experience ended as a dismal failure.

We headed to Health and Beauty next—not on the list, but seeing the sign made me think it’d be a good idea to go ahead and preemptively purchase some items we were getting low on. Finnick insisted on holding everything. And opening them. And then crying over when they were taken away. Because, really, isn’t losing a bottle of deodorant and a tube of toothpaste a tragedy? 

But no worries—we still had haircuts to brighten everyone’s mood! 

Andy had been asking for a haircut for a month. Pretty much as soon as we walked out of the salon the last time. It has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he enjoys getting his haircut and absolutely everything to do with the fact that he gets gum every time he makes it through a haircut without a meltdown. But his hair—and Finnick’s—had finally gotten to the point where it was over his ears, so gum-earning time had arrived!

Our usual girl wasn’t in, but the two who were working said they’d each take one kid so we could get out in half the time. What luck! So Andy and Finnick both went into a chair with me in the middle, trying to monitor both at once. 

Finnick had only had one haircut previously, so he is still a little apprehensive about the whole hair-cutting process. For comfort, he was sucking the life out of his pacifier. Unfortunately, every time he shied away from the clippers, he would open his mouth in surprise and it would fall out, right into all the hair. Because I was so busy trying to clean that pacifier so Finnick wouldn’t have a nervous breakdown in the chair, I couldn’t pay quite as much attention to Andy. I wasn’t too worried because he was doing great, trying to earn that gum. But then I saw the finished product, and I immediately realized I had been focusing on the wrong child.

Have you seen the movie Dumb and Dumber? Me either. But I’ve seen the front cover of the DVD. And Andy’s haircut greatly resembled that of Jim Carey’s character in that show. Of course, I told him how fantastic he looked, but inwardly I was horrified that I had to pay money for that monstrosity of a haircut. But I did, and off we went to get his gum.

Since Finnick is too young to understand the concept of gum, I decided to get him a sucker for his reward. The only kind I could find, without buying a bag of 500, was a bright blue Ring Pop up by the registers. I paid for my goodies, handed them off to the kiddoes, and headed to get the laundry detergent. 

But… I was distracted by the clearance balloons.

Practically the entire men’s section was on sale—all the shorts and T-shirts from summer were marked down for $5 or even $3, and I just couldn’t NOT LOOK! Seriously, Ken’s shorts have an incredibly short life span (ah, a pun!), and I wasn’t about to pass up rack after rack of them at those prices. 

About 10 racks later, I had not found a single pair in his size, but I had started to notice that my hands were sticky. I couldn’t figure out how I hadn’t noticed when I first got my cart that it had a sticky handle.

Then I looked at Finnick, and all was clear.

During all my intense clearance shopping, I had completely tuned out the children. They were quiet. They were satisfied with their treats. They were fine. Except, I forgot that Finnick is still sort of a sucker rookie. He doesn’t understand things like holding the sucker by the stick or that if you touch the sucker and then touch the shopping cart, you’re transferring bright, blue, sticky goo onto the very handle Mama is touching. 

Blue was EVERYWHERE. Look, I’ll show you:

It was so bad that we had to make a trip to the bathroom where Finnick received a bath in the sink. On the way there, he threw his sucker across the store and then screamed the rest of the way because I wouldn’t let him have it again. And his pacifier, which he cried for when he realized I really WAS NOT going to give him back the sucker off the floor, was nowhere to be found. 

(I think the road to Hell is paved not with good intentions but with the millions of pacifiers that we have lost at the most inconvenient times.)

 After the sucker fiasco, I decided to hurry up, grab my detergent, and get the heck out of Dodge. And all would have been fine if we hadn’t had to exit through that dern Garden Center. But who would have predicted that on our way out the door, we would happen upon…

A baby bird. A cute, tiny baby bird that started following out shopping cart towards the parking lot.

Guys, I’m telling you, you can’t make this stuff up.

Here I am with 2 young children who are OBSESSED with animals, and there’s this tiny bird hopping along behind our cart chirping. And they just know, because we just read the book, like yesterday, that those chirps are saying, “Are you my mother?”

Well, I can just see that bird getting smashed right in front of my sweet children, so I’m desperately looking for someone—ANYONE—that works at Wal-Mart who can move this bird away from the danger zone so their innocence can be maintained. But, of course, there’s no one. And the kids are begging me to take that bird home. Which, of course, there’s no way we’re going to do. 

My husband and my BFF (and probably YOU, if you’d been asked) said this would have been a great time to teach my kids about “survival of the fittest”. But I just couldn’t handle that after the toy let-down, the haircut catastrophe, AND the blue sticky. So I think of a genius compromise:

There is a vet’s office that we pass right by on the way home. And I have a diaper box. So I think, “No problem! I will load this bird up in my box, drop him off at the animal-loving vet who will somehow integrate the little guy back into bird society! My children will think I’m a hero, my husband won’t divorce me, and baby bird will be saved from a fate worse than death. Win for all!”

That is not at all how things played out.

First off, the excitement of the bird was enough to make Andy have to pee RIGHT NOW. I guess it is too much to expect him to have needed to go when asked while we were already in the restroom with his brother a mere 15 minutes ago. It’s much more fun to pee into the wind in the middle of the parking lot with your shorts all the way down around your ankles so that Mama can get misted while trying to block your naked behind from being seen. But with that done, everyone finished getting loaded up, and it was time to hand off this bird.

We stopped by the vet, but he informed me that his office did not accept baby birds. But he assured me that the Heard Museum did, and he gave me their number.

The Heard Museum informed me that they did not accept baby birds. But they assured me that there was a place in McKinney that did. Unfortunately, they couldn’t remember the name of the place, nor could they give me any contact information. All they could tell me was an intersection.

Google maps informed that there is NOTHING at that particular intersection.

So there I was, saddled with a baby bird that my kids wanted to keep. I knew I couldn’t release it at home without a scene out of National Geographic playing out right in front of them since we live next door to about 17 cats. And we couldn’t keep it. We simply, absolutely, without a doubt COULD NOT keep it. 

To make matters worse, we had managed to miss lunch during all the Wal-Mart and bird fun, and we were hungry. I had planned to stop for chicken on the way home, but it felt so wrong to buy a bucket of fried bird right in the midst of my Great Bird Rescue.

So… how did we get out of this mess?

I lied to my children.

We found a nice, shady little spot away from civilization where we could release baby bird into the wild. I explained to Andy that we were going to let the bird go in this super safe place (lie!) so that he could live with other birds again (lie!) and be happy (lie!). We took a picture with his short-lived pet (who would be dead within 24 hours…) and waved goodbye. 

And we ate chicken for lunch.