This weekend I took my mother and my daughter to the MFA to do cultural-type things. We visited a fashion photography exhibit, saw the new Art of the Americas wing, had lunch, drooled over the John Singer Sargent portraits (my favorite painter) and then went home. It was all very civilized and lovely.
In my absence, I’d suggested the boys go purchase a new bed for my son’s room. He’s turning six today, and his legs were almost hanging off his toddler bed. I’d picked out a few styles and made mature, rational arguments for why the bed should be small and white. The boys listened, and then they bought — a black bed. An enormous black bed that my son can barely climb into. Instead of the baby blue polka-dotted sheets I’d chosen, they came home with sheets covered in sports logos. In navy. To go with the black bed. (Fine, the manufacturer calls it espresso, but trust me, it’s black.)
The white bed, I was informed, was covered with pink sheets and pink bows and was far too girly. I pointed out that sheets can be changed, bows can be removed, but no luck. They weren’t budging. “I am a full-grown boy now,” my son told me. Right. A full-grown boy who will need a boost into his bed for the next six years.
To add insult to injury, they went and got haircuts, too. Not at the stylist who knows to trim only about a quarter of an inch at a time, but to somebody who cut my baby’s hair short AND shaved the sides. But the worst, the absolute worst, is this:
That’s right. Instead of selling the toddler bed, they chose to give it away. TO HARLEY.
Obviously, I can never leave them home alone again.
Postscript: Random Number Generator chose …. CharmingBillie! Congrats on winning The Other Life! I’ll be doing another giveaway shortly, so don’t forget to come back. (I’ll need another reason to emerge from the man cave that has become my home.)