It has started.
The invasion.
Every year around this time, our mailbox begins to fill with evil. One after another the catalogs show up. The doll catalogs.
American Doll, My Twinn, all of them. Every day a new one.
I have a procedure for when the catalogs show up. They "accidentally" land in the garbage immediately after I find them in the mailbox. Someone, however, didn't realize just how important it is to follow the Random Rules the Woman of the House Invents.
He gave her the catalog.
When I walked into the kitchen and discovered Alexis studying the American Doll catalog, I knew we were screwed. She held it close to her face, carefully memorizing every pixel. The catalog had become her Bible and she wasn't going to put it down until she was able to recite every line of scripture.
When she finally came up for air, she grabbed my phone and took a picture.
Photo acquired, Alexis ran over to me, excitement dripping from her face. "Momma!" she said, "Can you please email this to Santa? This is what I want him to bring me," she continued.
KIDS THESE DAYS.
Also, GET OFF MY LAWN.
Anyway, a few days went by and the catalog found its way to where it should have gone in the first place. I began to initiate the Ignore It Until It Goes Away plan, figuring that we're two whole months away from Christmas. There is more than enough time for the kid to pick something less expensive and more reasonable for her "big" present.
So far, my plan is full of fail.
Last night I went to crawl into bed and found that somehow the 42-pound short person was managing to hog the entire thing. Why she wasn't in her own bed, I don't know. Ever since she got her ears pierced, she really has been much better about that whole concept. But, there she was, her go-go-gadget legs blocking half the bed, even as her Gumby arms managed to pin Mr. Husband against the edge of the other side of the bed. Wayne Szalinski was nowhere to be found, so I had to figure out how to shrink the kid back to normal size (I swear short people expand at night--it's the only explanation for how they manage to simultaneously kick you in the shins and shove their elbows down your throat while pulling your hair).
I shoved a leg this way, pushed an arm that way, and rolled the rest of her over there. She started to stir a bit, so I shoved a little faster, figuring that if she woke up, I would have an excuse to escort her to her own room. Then she started to talk in her sleep. It was a one-sided conversation, clearly a dream amplified.
"I really, really want her," she said.
"She has curly hair just like me," she continued.
"I want to name her Emmy," she whispered as she smiled in her sleep.
Damn you, American Dolls. Now you have my kid dreaming about your over-priced hunks of plastic. DAMN YOU.
