April, 2012

I'm Going Crazy. Want to Come Along?

"It will teach her responsibility."

I didn't drop my gaze.

"Independence."

My look was plain: she's three and a half.

"The virtues of planning ahead, delayed gratification…"

I threw up my hands in a "this is your party, Sparky" gesture and turned back to the bay window display I was working on that celebrated the history of the space program.

I all started with the Whistling Monkey Cowboy Band. I'll be kind and call it that, the mythical children's band from the Baby Blues comic strip; the real band is just as annoying, just as addictive to kids, and if I mention them in a negative way (as in "mind-numbing, drool-inducing, ear-bleeding, utter and complete crap") they might sue me into my next incarnation. So Whistling Cowboy Monkey Band they shall be.

Ducky and I had no problem spending money on Lexi. (Far from it.) But there were limits. No pony. No sports car. No cell phone (thank you, Lindsay, for that one). While we bought her the occasional Whistling Monkey Cowboy Band items, it was in conjunction with a birthday or holiday or very occasional treats. If she wanted the newest CD, DVD, whatever, she usually had to pay for it herself, out of gift money or money she earned.

Since they put out CDs and DVDs the way Harlequin puts out books, she ran through her money frequently and at a rapid clip and was always looking for new ways to supplement her income. Face it, at not quite four there aren't a lot of chores she can do. She has regular chores that are expected as a member of he family, but she can pick extra chores from the chore jar or ask around and earn some extra quarters or dollars—and Charlie is always a good source for subcontracted work at either bookstore. But she really needed a steady source of income to support her habit.

An allowance and a soft touch father were a perfect combination.

The next Saturday she sat at the breakfast table, trying not to bounce on her seat while giving Ducky anxious looks. He looked baffled for a moment, then the fog cleared. "Oh! Yes. Allowance day."

Chortling, "Yea! Yea! Awwowance day!" under her breath, she slipped off her chair and stood by his side, waiting semi patiently.

"Quarters? Or dollars?"

Dollars? Plural? Holy cow, how much was he—

"Dowwars, pwease, they smush in my sneakers better."

I winced remembering Jodie Foster in Freaky Friday, pulling off her sock and change flying everywhere.

"One, two, three—and four."

Four bucks? Four bucks?! Ye gods and little fishes, I was in junior high before I wangled three out of my parents, and if I wanted to eat in the cafeteria, it came out of that money, too.

"One for each year," Ducky added, probably feeling my outrage from across the room. "And one to grow on."

"Thank you!" She skittered across the kitchen and dug in the whatnot drawer. "Now I know whom to hit up for a loan," I muttered, giving Ducky an arch look. Four bucks, indeed.

"I didn't get an allowance until secondary school. Times change."

Lexi pulled out the little ledger book for her chore money account. "Is this right?" She gave me a mildly skeptical look.

"Let's see. Last Sunday, fifty cents for folding and putting away all the towels. A dollar for mopping the floor in Grandma's bathroom. A dollar for straightening up and alphabetizing the canned goods and helping me make a shopping list. Another dollar for doing the same thing on Monday to the spices. Five for dusting all of the baseboards—" It was Ducky's turn to look scandalized. One, she did a very detailed job. Two, it was all of the baseboards in the house, took her all afternoon on Tuesday and Wednesday. And, three, it kept me from crawling around on my hands and knees, clearing the dust and dirt from miles of detail work. A bargain, in my opinion.

I tallied the rest of the odd jobs. She hadn't had a chance to go shopping for a while, and there had been a couple of decent jobs in there. "Are you cashing out your whole account?"

"How much for the new awbum?"

God bless our collection of LPs. To me, "album" means music—even the Whistling dingbats. "Five-ninety-nine at Costco." Keep 'em cheap, keep 'em hooked. I have a creepy suspicion their promoter was a dope peddler in a prior career. "Call it seven."

"Um…." She looked at the balance and pursed her lips.

"I have several errands to do his morning," Ducky said from behind his coffee cup and paper. "We can go to Costco… possibly Deutsch… would you like to go to Deutsch?" he asked innocently. Deutsch Discount Books. Great. I'm married to a dope peddler, too. (Okay, we're a matched set.)

Lexi looked at her fan of dollar bills. "If I take away sixteen that weaves…"

"Twelve-seventy-five."

"O—kaaaaay…" she drew out. "Sixteen dowwars, pwease," she said formally.

I pulled out my wallet. "I've only got a twenty. If you give me the four that you have, that will be even." She did the math on the back page of the ledger—not because she didn't trust me, just because we encourage her to practice her math skills when she gets the chance. Satisfied, she handed over the singles, took the twenty, watched me update her ledger, then bolted from the room.

It only took them fifteen minutes to be ready to go. "Home before dark?" I asked with a mildly sarcastic eyebrow flick.

"I'm bringing home ribeyes from Costco," Ducky said, flipping the Morgan key from the rack by the back door.

Oooooh. Barbecue. I can be bribed. I waved my hand as they tumbled through the door. "Have fun storming the castle!"

I knew they wouldn't be back by lunch (nope; they grabbed pizza at Costco) but I was sure they'd be back before Mother's afternoon walk and tea. And they were, laden with boxes and bags. "Wow."

While Ducky unpacked and put away the perishables, Lexi showed off her purchases. She knows that if we suggest a trip to a bookstore, we're willing to pick up the tab, or most of it anyway. And, boy, Ducky picked it up with both hands. She pulled out book after book from the canvas bag (this time she had chosen the one with Outside of a dog, a book is probably man's best friend, and inside of a dog, it's too dark to read.—Groucho Marx printed on it) and stacked them on the table. A Madeline omnibus. Several Amelia Bedelia reissues. A couple of American Girl books. Katie Can Do It!, which looked like a Dora the Explorer imitation but (sorry!) less annoying, with some Carmen Sandiego mixed in.

Ducky was now lounging by the sink, leaning against the counter with the most deadpan expression I've ever seen on a human being, inspecting his nails with such intensity you'd think a promotion depended upon them.

"Wow, great choices, honey."

"Wait! I've got more!"

That's my girl, keeping the economy going. I made, "Oh, nice," noises of the three (oh, gawwwwd) Whistling Cowboy CDs. Lucky us, they were on sale. (I deserve an Oscar, I really do. The damned things are banned at school, so we'll get the concert at home.) Another stack of books from Crown (Crown and Deutsch on the same day? Double wow.) and a bag from… Toys R Us?

"Uh huh!" Lexi grabbed and held aloft a net bag of good old-fashioned marbles.

"Um—okay…"

"I'll bet Mommy is interested for whom you bought the marbles." Minute pause. "And why."

"They're for Miss Samantha!" Before I could say it was nice to buy a present, however odd, for her teacher, she added, "She said she wost her marbows so I bought her more!"

Fortunately she skipped out of the kitchen to catch her grandmother rising from her nap. She missed me clamp my hands over my mouth, my eyes watering with suppressed giggles.

Ducky had given in and was holding on to the chair back for support. "Imagine driving down Bartholomew Fair Drive when she let that fly," he managed to get out around gasps of laughter.

I scrubbed the heel of my palm against my eyes. "I'd rather not. We'd be hunting for my marbles—among other things."