Toddler Penitentiary

I finally made the decision that maybe I should have more than one pair of decent jeans. I am, after all, a grown-up and ripped jeans don't really go with the whole grown-up look. (Although they probably do go with the tired mom look.) So I packed Esmé into the car and we made the trek over to Metrotown to get lost in the gigantic maze of stores.

Esmé sat patiently in her stroller, watching the crowds, being cute for the sales ladies, and making faces into the mirrors. Pretty much just minding her own business. Or so I thought.

Once I had had enough of the mall (which was very quickly because I loath shopping) we made our way toward the car. It wasn't until I had put her in the car seat and started to fold up the stroller that I saw the evidence.

A tank top. Army green. Size medium. Neatly tucked into the seat of the stroller. A shirt I have never seen before.

She's starting young folks, and she knows her stuff. Surveying the clothes, deciding which table is low enough for her to reach and make a quick grab. Choosing an item that won't set off the alarms as we leave the store. Batting her big blue eyes at the sales ladies to solidify her innocence. And tucking the evidence away and out of sight. It all makes sense now.

And then here is where I become the accomplice.

I stand there in the parking lot weighing my options. Our shopping experience has left us both grouchy. Esmé, in addition to being mentally exhausted from carrying out her elaborate burglary, is now hungry and tired and cranky. She's already buckled in to her car seat. I look at the tank top lying there. I think about the store it came from. Where is that damn store anyway? I'd have to wander around that monster of a mall all over again? My morals give way to fatigue. I don't care anymore. We're going home.

When we get home I have a talk with Esmé, "Honey, next time you see a shirt you like and think you want it, why don't you check the tag and make sure it's Mama's size first."

Please don't tell anyone.