Giraffe crossing

Build a Bear

Yesterday we checked out the Build A Bear Workshop at the mall. On a Saturday. In the Mall. Nothing like standing in a long line in order to spend too much money on a bunch of fluff. And my girl? Yeah, she can pick out the most expensive animal offered, without even being able to understand the concept of money. It’s a special talent many claim is inherent in the X chromosome. In fact, later in the trip my husband had a moment of clarity regarding his life with girls when both Lily and I, at the exact same moment, handed him a bag and said, “Hold this.” He stopped stalk still and whispered, “Is this going to be my life?” Yes my dear, yes it is.

It’s always hard to tell if Lily is enjoying a new experience; she’s painfully shy. An unfamiliar person asks her a question and she bursts into tears while flinging herself into her father’s arms. I seriously worry what will happen if she ever gets separated from one of us accidentally. We’re trying to teach her our full names and address and that kind of thing, but even if she gets it down pat, I doubt she’d be able to tell a stranger. I suppose we could always follow the sounds of wailing to get back to her. Mark says we should just get her tattooed.

But she did seem to dig the whole experience, despite crying at the woman who inserted the fluff, crying when directed to pick out a heart, crying when asked the name of her giraffe, crying when shown how to "pamper" the thing, crying when asked if she had fun… sigh. Anya even cried a little, just so Lily wouldn’t feel alone. She hasn't allowed her new friend out of her sight since she first laid eyes on him in the store though, so I suspect it was a hit. His name is Stilts. I suggested Sahara, because I’m a silly girl, but once Mark mentioned the name Stilts she was done talking about the subject, cutting off my next suggestion with, “his name is Stilts, Mommy.” And then she rolled her eyes at me and asked me for the car keys, since you know, she’s 16 and wants to drive. Such a shock to the poor dear when I insisted she wasn’t yet three-years-old.

I think we'll give this whole thing another go in a year or two, when she can actually participate in the experience, rather than cry and cling. Ah well, good times!