We All Have Our Limits

Saturday morning we were preparing to go out to the mall to do mall things. We had to tear Matilda away from the computer and Gertrude away from her Wiggles guitar. Both objected to the change in momentum. Matilda walked off to her room to sullenly put on her shoes.

Gertrude, however, put up a protest about the Wiggles guitar.

“MY guitar.”

“I know honey,” mommy said quietly. “But we can’t bring it everywhere we go.”

“MINE!” At this point she presses the button that plays, at sound levels higher than the last concert I went to, “Dance the Oobey Doo With Dorothy The Dinosaur.”

“Okay, Mommy’s turning off the guitar and putting it away.”

“Nooooooo!”

“Gertrude, we’re putting this away. Now. Mommy has her limits.”

“Mommy has limits?”

Suppressing a laugh mommy responds, “Yes sweetie. I have limits.”

“I see them?”

“Keep pressing the button and you will.”

The idea that mommy has limits, whatever those things may be, intrigued Gertrude. She wanted to see the limits. Touch them. Feel them. Take them apart and examine them. But mommy would not yield.

Instead, we loaded in the car and went off to the mall. We stopped off at a store and Gertrude proudly announced, “Mommy has limits!”

We went to the T-Mobile stores to look at cases for my communications device. The sales girl asked if we needed help, to which Gertrude explained, “Mommy has limits!” When we were looking at the puppies in their cages, Gertrude told the Golden Retriever, Beagle, Malamute, Husky and Bischon Frise that “Mommy has limits!”

Matilda stopped by her favorite store that houses gaudy home decorations for girls, products that range from pink lamps covered in fur and strange dangly things that protect your room, all in pink, of course. Matilda asked for a few things. But Gertrude set her straight. “Mommy has limits.”

So we went home. Later that day we had “Family Fun Night” in which we watched the surprisingly groovy family movie “Holes” (which contained no less than two Eels songs). We didn’t expect Gert to pay attention, since she’s only two and the movie was for Matilda. Yet, she sat there throughout the whole movie, rapt with attention. It was amazing. I was proud. Though, to my horror, as soon as the credits rolled Gertrude stood up and said, “Okay. Turn off TV.”

“No honey, we watch the credits.”

“No. Off TV!” She was adamant, but I wouldn’t budge.

Matilda saved the day by starting to sing along with the ending credits song. It went something like, “Diggin up up holes (dig it), diggin’ up up holes (dig it).” Suddenly, Gertrude stops. And she starts singing along in her closest approximation of a bass voice. “Diggin’ up up howes. Diggin’ up up howes.” She sang herself to sleep Saturday, by digging up up holes. I tried to get her to dig up up weeds in the backyard on Sunday, but to no avail. She saw through my ruse.

Instead, we had to make a trek back to the mall. To appease Gert, who demanded copious amounts of food after her nap (she routinely eats four breakfasts in the morning, one of which is mine) I gave her a package of Dragon Tales fruit snacks. Dragon Tales fruit snacks are purported fruit that has been melted into a waxy substance and flavored to taste like All Fruit. They take that muck and put it into molds of licensed characters. The results of which look something like what would happen if you took a Dragon and dropped it off the Empire State Building. (I’ve watched the show. After five minutes, I have an urge to do exactly that to each and every dragon. Especially the freakish genetic mutation with two heads and the IQ of a vegetable.)

It was getting to be about that time, so we were discussing dinner. None of us really had any deep desires for any specific food, so the menu was up for grabs.

“Gertrude, what would you like for dinner?”

“No want dinner. I have dragons in my tummy.”

“What if we made pizza?”

“I have dragons in my tummy.”

That settled it. She didn’t care. Her meal of waxy fantasy animals had sated her appetite. Clearly she didn’t need to eat. After all, having a group of dragons in your tummy must be quite filling.

So Mom and I decided and cooked dinner. We were making her a plate, but she was still insisting that the dragons in her tummy were quite happy and didn’t need company.

Then I started eating a yummy, golden-brown, fried concoction.

“Wuzzat?”

“It’s a hushpuppy.”

“I want to eat a puppy!”

“What about the dragons?”

“I want puppies in my tummy!”

We better not let the ASPCA find out about this. I hear they have their limits.