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I’m pouring myself an extra large glass of Mommy Juice tonight. I just got a glimpse of what my life is going to be like for the next…um, twenty years or so, and I now have pounding in my brain.

It starts at the eyeball (which is twitching) and radiates up my forehead and down my cheek at the same time. It might be a stroke. I’m pretty sure it’s just stress, but a stroke might actually get me out of the task that I am faced with tonight. At least I’d have an excuse to go to the hospital and be hooked up with an IV (do they have wine flavored IVs? I’d really like to look into that). At any rate, I’m hoping the alcohol numbs it.

Why so stressed? Taxes due? Nope. Moving? Nope. Going to court? Nope. Having surgery? No, no and more NO.

I’m stressed simply because my husband and I took our daughter to the store for a simple item. A dress for her National Junior (Mini Midget) Honor Society. Apparently now you can get into the Honor Society at age nine when the hardest thing you have to do is make sure you don’t eat the paste. Not to negate her accomplishment. She’s very good at not eating the paste. (And getting straight As quite a few marking periods, too).

But it’s not a nice honor for me and her father because she has INSISTED she needs a new dress for the occasion. Still, I was certain she had SOMETHING to wear, so I headed up to her overflowing closet where several of the items still had their TAGS on them. I pointed to said items and asked, “What’s wrong with these?” I should have poured the Mommy Juice then. Or at least got comfortable.

This one,” she remarks (in preteen exaggerated enunciation), while shoving the adorable Minion dress that she wanted for Easter at me, “Is for BABIES.” Well, duh. I told you that three months ago but you “had to have it.” Still I keep my mouth shut. I may be stupid but I’m not new.

“How about this?” I point to the pink dress she wore just a few weeks ago for another school function.

“I don’t have shoes to go with that anymore?” She remarks haughtily.

Did her foot grow two sizes in two weeks? I point to the black flats. “These go perfectly.”

She sighs and slaps her hand against her forehead. “Those are flats. Flats are for babies. I need a heel.”

What? You’re NINE, kid! And likely to fall flat on your face during the ceremony because you have no clue how to operate in heels. Hell, I know grown women who walk like there’s a cantaloupe wedged between their thighs when they wear heels.

Still, I keep my mouth shut.

“And this is a skirt.” She points to the other item that I have pulled out of the closet.

Now stupid me opens my mouth. “Yeah, so?”

The child, erm…preteen, rolls her eyes. “I don’t want a skirt. I want a dress.”

“Let me guess, skirts are for babies?” I remark with a smirk. (I can’t IMAGINE where SHE gets her Smart Ass comments from)

She squeals as if I have asked her to lick the toilet bowl or something. “No, they’re not for babies! They’re not pretty. Skirts are like, so ugly.

OOOOOKKKKAAAAYYYY. Note to self, skirts are like, so ugly.

Ignoring her eyerolls and stomps, I shuffle her (and poor unsuspecting hubby) into the car for a trip to the store.

Ah, the store …the place I used to love to go to. Now after this evening’s trip, I never want to shop again. At least not with Preteen Drama Queen, aka. expert on all that is fashion.

After a disastrous visit to the old standby (Target), where everything was declared “babyish”, “ugly”, or “OMG Mom , SERIOUSLY???”, we headed to the mall.

My husband’s eyes were already glazing over and he had no idea he was still in for a treat. Actually, I need to interject here to mention that he rationalized that she could just wear her white sandals with the pink and black WOOL  dress that we bought in February. Men. So dumb, yet so hopeful at the thought of saving a buck. SMH. He will definitely not be joining us on future trips for graduation dresses, Prom dresses, or wedding dresses. Which is probably why he made such a stupid comment to begin with.

So she finds a dress she LOVES and MUST HAVE. It is also, (and I QUOTE), “totes adorbs”. The problem is, there’s silver piping throughout and neither the white, nor the brown sandals she currently owns, work with this particular ensemble.

So…off to the shoe department we trudge. My husband stops to rest on the Sealy and Serta mattresses that are nearby. We leave him. We don’t need him anyway. He thinks green and blue match. Maybe he’s color blind. Who knows?  I’ll make him an eye doctor appointment soon.

In the shoe department I actually find a pair of silver sandals that have a bow that matches the one on the dress PERFECTLY. It’s like fashion kismet or something. I excitedly turn to my daughter, waving the perfect shoes like a madwoman. However, Prima Donna is not having any of it.

“They’re FLATS. I told you I am NOT wearing FLATS. I’ll look like a short baby.” Of course. How silly of me. Being 54 inches tall is not nearly enough when your classmates are 55 inches tall.

“Just try them on,” I beg. Have I mentioned that they’re PERFECT???

She “attempts” to try them on; pretending she can’t fit her foot in the sandals for God’s sake. Let me tell you…I’ve seen this kid squeeze herself into a pair of shoes three sizes too small when she wants to.

She is now wailing.

“Forget it,” I said. “Let’s try to find a different dress.”

Into another store we go. This time, I start pulling things off the rack. I pick out ten dresses and show her all of them. She squeals with delight. She also thinks she getting ALL of them. Oh no child…you must decide.

Well, of course, she can’t decide. After about ten minutes, she’s eliminated one dress.

So we opt to try on some of the dresses. I’m hoping at least half will look stupid or not fit or something. I was not banking on one nearly ripping while she stood naked in the dressing room flapping her arms when the dress got stuck over her head.

Three hours later, we are armed with one new dress and one new pair of wedges (a compromise between the heels and the flats). My husband is nearly catatonic from the experience while I am experiencing the stroke like symptoms I described earlier.

“What the hell was that?” he asks when we get home.

Keep in mind, when my son needed a suit for his honor society induction, this is how the conversation went.

Me: Do you like this shirt?
Him: Yes.
Me: Are your pants clean?
Him: I think so.
Me: Do you need a new tie?
Him: I’ll just borrow one of Daddy’s.
End of conversation.

(I don’t want to get into how he accidentally wore his ten year old cousin’s dress pants to the actual ceremony instead of his own, or how my husband actually had to CUT one of his ties to accommodate the boy’s height or lack thereof).

I shook my head. “It’s our future, honey.” I raise my glass. “Cheers to having a girl.”

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