"I want a flaflable," she said.
"A what?" I asked.
"I WANT A FLAFLABLE. I WANT A FLAFLABLE. I WANT A FLAFLABLE." She repeated herself over and over and over, proving once again that small children could make past prisoner torture done at Guantanamo Bay look like . . . well . . . child's play.
"You find one, you can have it," I told her, silently hoping that the never-ending loop would end.
It didn't.
All through the store, Alexis kept repeating her crazy nonsense, not even pausing to take a breath between words. She just kept talking and talking and talking and talking and OMG don't even think about not listening because then her head will explode and she will yell and are you still paying attention because YOU HAD BETTER BE PAYING ATTENTION or else she will keep talking and talking and talking and talking. And talking.
Mr. Husband was the first to break. As he hoisted a white flag up over his head, openly admitting defeat, I tried to figure out how I could possibly survive the rest of the grocery run. I considered freeing the beast from the cart, but then quivered with fear as I thought about what she could do if she were unleashed on the other customers. Nonstop chatter seemed less dangerous than a rogue terrorism expert.
Somewhere along the way, I told the little monster that she needed to get a new hobby. A few minutes later, she did.
She started hitting herself. Over and over and over she slapped her own face, while loudly proclaiming, "Ow! Mom! Stop hitting me! Ow! That hurts! Stop hitting me!"
The child is trying to destroy me.
The only thing is that this time . . . This time I HAVE PROOF.
Take that, you Tiny Terrorist.