I’m blaming pregnancy brain for my momentary lapse in judgement last week at Walmart when Piper asked for a toy and I suggested a squirt gun. A squirt gun, when we live in a state that is essentially a snow globe…where it is warm enough outside for t-shirts maybe 2 months out of the year…where I have become what is quite possibly the palest version of myself after living here for more than a year.
At least I was smart enough to make her promise not to squirt me with the stupid thing. The only downside to this is that from the second Daddy walks in the door to the second I finally get her tucked into bed, Piper is asking, “Please I gotta squirt Daddy?”
As I see it, I have three choices:
1. Smash the damn thing into a billion pieces of cheap florescent yellow plastic.
2. Ignore the begging and keep saying, “Maybe if it’s above 40 degress tomorrow we can take it outside.”
3. Finally quit being such a mean mom and learn to live with soaking wet couches, carpet, glasses, and laptops.
Who needs to be dry anyway?