Hippity Hoppity

I love holidays. Super, obsessively, have a Pinterest board for the most minor of them, love holidays. For a few years, I tried to keep it under wraps... because sometimes a childless 26-year-old begging her husband to watch Hocus Pocus in September is "weird."

So, having B was an amazing way to live vicariously celebrate everything with her and enjoy all the festivities through the eyes of a child.

And in 20 short months I have learned this: holiday mascots are terrifying through the eyes of a small child. I know this should be obvious. There are movies, blogs, and childhood nightmares devoted solely to this concept. Every holiday that rolls around, though, I think this is it. This is the time that B will love every holiday themed picture situation.

So, with completely unrealistic expectations, we headed out for the 2014 pictures with the Easter Bunny. Day 1 was immediately derailed by poor time management skills a packed schedule. Day 2 started off a little more promisingly. B slept like a champ, the sun was shining, we actually knew where our car keys were on first look. It was all going to be perfect.

Of course, two minutes later, we all came right back to reality when we realized B had four pairs of white shoes all in sizes that would fit her between the ages of 5 and 7 (thanks, sweet cousins!) but none that would fit her before 2017. Available options for her Easter Bunny photos included fake Uggs, a pair of cowboy boots, and some black Mary Janes that recently became the latest victim of her avant-garde painting phase. For just a second, in a moment of weakness, I tried to justify that the cowboy boots would work. Cowboy boots are outdoorsy, farms are outdoors, farms have bunny rabbits, thus it is totally legit to wear cowboy boots to visit the Easter Bunny.

"Is this really my life?"

Once I accepted that this logic was indeed ridiculous, we headed out with the idea of making a quick stop in the mall for appropriate shoes. I have been reading B stories about the Easter bunny for two weeks in preparation for this visit. So far, she hasn't hurled them across the room (looking at you It's Potty Time), so I figured we were in good standing already to meet the Bunny. En route, we (okay, me... but sometimes parenting decisions sound more credible if you pretend like your husband thought you were brilliant when you made them) decided it would be a great idea to sing along to our Music Class track "Bunny Has a Tail" on repeat. Because obviously the toddler will connect the music in the front of the car and the happiness of mom and dad's hand motions to the giant 6-feet tall, bespectacled, white ball of terror in the mall. Even if that connection was possible, B seemed less than amused around repeat #5. I am pretty sure I even saw some eye rolls. Or, as RB calls them, "when B looks just like her mom."

We managed to make it to the mall after only one version of "Bunny Has a Tail" in which B screamed "noooooooo" like a UVA fan on Friday night (too soon?). Now, just a quick trip in to the department store to grab some white summer shoes (as if there were any other kind of white shoe) and then BAM, another wonderful family holiday memory made.

The last time B went shoe shopping with me, she was confined to a stroller and mostly interested in trying to figure out how to get her foot in her mouth rather than into a shoe. I should have known this trip would be a whole new experience as at least four times a day my closet is emptied out while she tries on every shoe I own. Even a few pairs of sparkle heels from college that really should be retired are a part of her daily routine.

The minute B saw the shoe department in Von Maur, it was like a glimpse at teenage B. Our usually clinging to momma, shy in public daughter was sprinting ahead of us and yelling "SHOES" as loudly as possible. Before we could even attempt to reel her in, two pairs were off of the (child level - thanks a lot store manager) shelves and she was attempting to cram her feet into them. And so it went for at least 30 minutes. RB and I were quietly asking the 20-something, not super amused sales clerk for pairs to try on, while B continued to rearrange pairs, ask for them, and possibly shove a few into my purse.

It was harrowing. When they could actually find a pair in her size, it meant dragging her away from the shoes she was currently clinging to with all the might and fury her 26 pounds could muster. Then, we would try to distract her with the new shoes.. only to then take them away three seconds after shoving them on her foot so we could send them back with the sales clerk. This cycle became self-perpetuating as B realized no shoes were staying with her for long so all shoes must. be. hoarded.
 By the time we were finally able to find a pair that worked, we were exhausted. Exhausted. But we had what we needed to continue our quest to see the Bunny. Even though... maybe for a second... it did cross my mind just to prop her up against the cardboard egg cutout at the entrance to the department store and call it a day.

But MEMORIES. For the sake of all the memories, we pressed on. We had already learned our lesson from Christmas, and decided the best plan was for me to hide and RB hand her off to the stuffed animal of nightmares friendly Bunny. So, shortly before reaching the Bunny Spring Land (or ... whatever they call the giant plastic eggs and bunny habitat next to the vending machines), I slowed down and positioned myself behind a giant, indoor fern next to the photo op. I could see B but B couldn't see me.

It was perfect. Momma's out of sight, Momma's out of mind. The one downside: I was also five feet from the children's indoor play yard. Want to make a bunch of suburban moms nervous? Hide in a fern and stare at kids. Seriously. I think I was minutes away from Chris Hansen popping out with a microphone in my face. I tried to subtlety point to B and smile but I am pretty sure they just thought I was signaling to an accomplice.

So, now under the watchful eye of the neighborhood watch, I focused attention on Sweet B. At first, all was wonderful. She and RB confidently walked into the fake yard, waving to the photographers and the Bunny. At first, the Bunny was amazing - maybe just a sweet, giant stuffed animal she could snuggle. She was intrigued. Then it moved. Immediately game over. Through my fern-framed view, I saw RB try to hand B over to the Bunny while she kicked her legs and swung her arms, Chuck Norris style. Both photographers swarmed her, shaking tambourines in her face and singing loudly. Because if a small child is terrified, the best way to calm her is to have strangers making loud, startling noises while invading her personal bubble.

And then, almost instantly, it was over. One bulb flashed, RB scooped her, the crying ceased immediately. She had survived and we had our new memory. Maybe not the memory we had originally imagined, but she kept her bow in the whole time. I call that a win.

"I have bad parents."