We Survived the American Girl Store

Back in August, I made a rookie parenting mistake. I gave my daughter a toy catalog filled with toys she did not have. It was the day our Lego Club magazines came (yes, we get two so the boys don't fight over them) and I thought the American Girl Doll catalog would prevent her from reading over Lovebug's shoulder. Nothing makes Lovebug give up faster than having his older sister do something faster than he does.

This may be why he is embracing basketball, which Ironflower has no interest in.

So of course Ironflower fell madly in love with the dolls that currently retail for $105. I explained that she would need to wait until her birthday. She accepted it with good grace. . .and started planning her shopping trip. I explained that a day in the city and buying more than just a doll was approaching birthday party level costs and we couldn't do both.

She chose the day in the city.  She studied the catalogs more than she studied her math facts. But she never whined or complained. Friday, the day before her birthday, was the big day. A day in the city with Mommy and Daddy and the American Girl Doll Store.

En route. 

Two dolls. Two outfits. Matching pajamas. 

Ah, the store. It's big. Like three floors of big. It's pink. Of course. It's crowded. And we were there before the people who work there consider it crowded, so I don't know what kind of hell it turns into when it's officially crowded. Maybe you have to wait in line to see the products? I don't know. At least the people swarming through the displays with us were generally nice. The lines to pay weren't too long - though I think there were three places to pay on every floor.  I highly recommend week day mornings. 

Checking out Rockefeller Center. She decided the wait was too long at the cafe, so we went to an Irish place nearby. She was pleased by the grown-up establishment and all the attention from the wait staff. 

The Hershey store for dessert. 

Here's the worst part; Hot Guy and I have also been suckered in by American Girl. I mean, we're history nerds. We like our kid to be happy. We like her playing with dolls that don't look like strippers. I'm already plotting what Santa can bring. How could I resist? 

"My American Girl", who has been named "Katherine", and Caroline from 1812. 

The only problem now is that Lovebug and Hugmonkey want to know why there aren't any American Boy dolls. 

Happy 3rd Birthday, Lovebug!

Dear Lovebug,

I can't believe you are three. You are growing up so fast. I'm so proud that you have learned to put your own sneakers and coat on. And you are so polite with people, asking their names and introducing yourself. And to think I was so worried about your speech!

Watching you become a big brother has been amazing. You are so gentle and sweet with your baby brother, even using "mother-ese" to talk to him. For a kiddo who still loves the word "no", you are always willing to help with your brother. I love watching you give him a kiss every morning.

Sometimes your passion wears me out - sometimes I'm not sure why you are SO upset for no apparent reason. But as I listen to you play - I love how you act out stories with all of your Thomas trains - I realize that there's a lot more going on in your head than you're telling me. I can't wait until you're ready to tell me everything.

And Thomas. I'm not sure what you'd do without trains. You play with them so well - for so long. But you're also interested in them, beyond just the Thomas stories. You pick out non-fiction books to learn about trains and cheerfully watch specials on the Discovery Channel about them. That's pretty cool for a three year old.

You are my little Lovebug, filled with kisses and hugs and tackles. I love you so much and I'm so proud to be your Mommy.

Love,
Mommy

Happy Birthday, Mom!

My mother grew up in a small town in Pennsylvania. Her family didn't have much money, but my mother made it to Penn State anyway (her straight A's probably helped). She majored in journalism and wrote for the Daily Collegian. Since this was the early '60's, most college educated women became teachers or nurses. When my mom walked into her first professional newsroom, she was the only woman not getting coffee.

My mom dealt with being young, female and hot (she still looks so good) in a profession dominated by older men in the coolest way possible - she taught herself to drink martinis and swear like a sailor. And she became the first woman general news editor at a respected news organization. She met my dad because she was his boss (this was the mid-'60's).

Eventually she married my dad, helped him found the company they work at to this day and had me. She worked and was still "The Picture Lady" at my school (she came in and taught us about great works of art). To this day she supports me in too many ways to count and STILL brags about my ballet performances. The only time she has ever lied was to tell me about Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. And as soon as I got old enough to question them, she told me the truth. When I loudly asked what a douche was as we were surrounded by businessmen on a crowded airplane, she did her best to answer me. She reads ALL of my blogs.

My mother will tell you that she's pushing seventy. She will tell you that after she gets home from the gym, cleans the house, works in her garden and makes a fantastic dinner (with candlelight!) or goes to ballet class, goes to work and makes a fabulous dinner. She will tell you that after she outruns my children. She will tell you that after she has a couple of martinis. She will tell you that while she hauls a huge sack of peat to her garden. She will tell you that as she puts on high heels made in Italy and an above the knee skirt and you realize that her legs are better than yours.

Have a wonderful birthday, Mom.