Even the Cryptkeeper is Supposed to Retire

OK, so here' s my theory on humankind's evolutionary ability to manipulate a mother's wallet.



Cavemen started the whole thing. Gorg's luring the triceratops to distract his mother while he raided the bonepile was just the beginning.



Point in case....my 8 year old son. Never one to be outdone by a dramatic reaction (I could charge admission to the living room whenever he's told to do homework), even I was impressed by his "Gimme a New Bike" performance. Now I thought he looked really cute riding around on his old bike....maybe bore a striking resemblance to the Shriners, but still cheek-pinchable.



So my recommendation that he wait until Spring to trade up to a model that doesn't drive his knees in to his chin sounded reasonable, right? WRONG!



I was instantly met with a face that looked like it was being sucked in to a black hole while some pyrotechnic artist set a fireworks display to the music of him wailing about how he's going to sic Dr. Phil on me.



I decided he was old enough for the "You have to contribute in your way to this family" speech, which was met by a resounding "Pffft..." as he was already tipped off by his brothers that this essentially means giving up anything not sold at the Dollarama so Mom can afford the unleaded gasoline and brand-name ketchup.



Any event resulting in a school-aged child accompanying their mother to a toy store never ends well. For the mother. Or the guy that has to put everything in the aisles away at the end of the day. Or the janitor who forgot his gum-melter stuff.



So, armed with a credit card and a written list of punishments for various predicted crimes against adults, we hit the local bike-o-rama, and are met by a well-meaning salesman, Arnold. (Insert terminator jokes here....).



Now Arnold, being a seasoned kid-toy relationship builder, is confident in his ability to find any boy the perfect bicycle to launch him from boyhood into adolescence. Poor Arnold. Poor, poor Arnold. Little did he know he was dealing with the love child of Mothra and a poltergeist.



Following his well-honed homing device that gravitates children to the most expensive things in the store to break, my little ray of sunshine managed to find a bike that converts into a daybed or a lawnmower, and cleared his throat for his "I WANNNIT" rant. Noticing the glint of hope in the eyes of an I-Get-Commission style Arnold, I immediately position myself so he can't miss the fact that I'm dressed in dress pants and my husband's hunting shirt.



Sighing that "You're gonna make me earn my paycheck" sigh, Arnold points us to the discount section. Which just happens to look like an apocolyptic version of Wall-E. Ignoring the "You can't expect someone of my stature to ride one of THOSE" look oozing from my boy's face, I drag him to a bike that doesn't require me to mortgage the camper to buy.



Now begins the "I'll do extra chores around the house to pay for (insert unattainable toy here) .... I promise!". Having had goats invade my garage to forage in all the garbage that never made it to the curb, and having had shooed reporters off my lawn wanting to photograph the crop circles that formed because the grass was so high....I gave him the "Never-Gonna-Happen-And-Drop-It-Before-I-Trade-You-In-For-A-Dog" look. (Seldom used, very effective).



So Arnold sets about sorting through the jumbled mass of cheap bikes with the same amount of enthusiasm I suspect he reserves for root canals. All of which are met with a look from my son that would curdle milk. After about an hour, Arnold starts to show signs of fatigue while my son and I both maintain our "Never Surrender" demeanors. So something's gotta give soon.



And then it happens.....Arnold magically pulls out a shiny red contraption that instantly illuminates the room with its magnificence while a chorus of Angels sings in the background. Wiping the tears from his eyes, my son whispers "We'll take it." Smiling his most professional "Pay, Get Out, and Never Return" smile, Arnold gives a pathetic "I'll be back" as he leaves a vapor trail to get the credit card swiper thingie.



Patting myself on my proverbial back for sticking to my guns and teaching my son the value of bargain shopping, I realize with horror that something's amiss. There's a pricetag on the bike that surely blew across the street from the car dealership across the way. How did one of the daybed/lawnmower bikes crawl over here?



Enter Arnold, the sweat mopped from his brow and the linament applied to all the necessary muscle groups, ready to add to my growing list of creditors. Gesticulating wildly to him before he swipes that card, I realize with horror that he's intentionally avoiding eye contact with me. As my son strokes the tires and mumbles something about "My Precious", I snap my fingers in front of his face and firmly explain that unless Alan Funt is hiding in the back room, this bike stays with Arnold.



I'm not sure about you, but I have no defences against a sad little face. A trembling chin, a pained look in the eyes, and big shiny tears make me forget all the inimportant stuff like food and heat and a roof over our heads. So when Arnold gave me just such a look, I scribbled my name on the "Sign Here" line, and exited the store with my new liability, being comforted by the "Woo Hoo"s of joy I heard. Also from Arnold.



So please feel free to call me if you need your lawn mowed....or need to rent a place to sleep for a night....or a hunting shirt....



To be continued......