It all started with the American Girl doll store.
Since Sammy (and her mommy and her Auntie Mar) are all big fans of these dolls, it made sense for us to trek out to their grand opening. It all started so well. Sam loved the dolls and books and her mommy was contemplating buying everything (Matching dresses! Cute dolls! Thousands of accessories!), like a gambling addict in Vegas (Wait, what was my credit limit again? Can I get cash on credit?)
I probably would have, too, if it had all not started to break down.
The happy beginning:
It is always a doll stroller. For whatever reason, these toys have caused more fights among little girls than all the dolls, swings and cars at the playground. If there is a tiny stroller to be had, Sammy must have it in her possession.
Note the way she looks behind her, darting her eyes about, on the lookout for any other little girl who might want to also play with the stroller. To them, she has only this to say: "NO! MINE! NO! MINE!"
As you can see, this one was particularly large and cumbersome. Sam absconded with a it and tried to push it up the escalator, when she did not accomplish that, she gathered every displayed "bitty baby" doll (black, white, asian and hispanic) one on top of the other into a multi-cultural orgy, stuffed them into this frustrating SUV of strollers and tried to run away with them, bowling over at least three fifth-grade girls in the process.
Roughly 550 upscale mommies and their equally upscale daughters (dolls in tow) witnessed my daughter's mayhem, snotty looks upon their botoxed faces (as if their child never behaved this way).
Ani just watched:
If we tried to touch her or g-d forbid, suggest she might like to keep the stroller confined (or better yet, stop using it) she would fall to the floor, scream like we were beating her and kick her legs. I had Anni strapped to my chest in the Bjorn and Mariel had no clue what to do, so between us all we looked like complete amateurs.
By the end, we were asked by a security guard if we needed "help," which I believe was code for: "don't let the door hit you on your way out."
Once we got her to the street, this was the scene:
I just pretended Mar was her mother and I was merely a shocked spectator. Now I try to laugh and focus on the fact that, as Auntie K says, "She looks like an angry political protester who has been nabbed by the police."
I definitely plan to take her there for her birthday. I am serious, by the way. Crazy, I know. But definitely serious.
(Note the young girls in the background, their bags stuffed with American Girl goodness, terrified of the crazed little person kicking her clodhopper sneakers and screaming: "MORE DOLL!! MORE DOLL!! SAMMY PUSH! I WANT MORE DOLL!")