Nordstrom is amazing. They’ll take anything back, and they’ll smile and act pleasant through the whole transaction. I once heard a story that someone successfully returned four tires to the store. Well, guess what. I found something they won’t let you return. See the following conversation:
ME: I’d like to return this.
CHIPPER SALESLADY: The shirt?
ME: No, the child.
CHIPPER SALESLADY: (Uncomfortable laughter)
ME: I’m serious.
CHIPPER SALESLADY: Did you get her in this section?
ME: Nope, the hoo-ha section.
Gotta love Nordstrom— she has to keep smiling no matter what I say. Anyway, the myth is not true. Two chipper salespeople, a smiling manager and an overly friendly customer service rep later, I learn that there are some things they won’t let you return. I have no choice but to leave with my daughter in tow.
You might be wondering why I was trying to return her in the first place. I think my daughter is the best thing on earth. Until two weeks ago. That’s when the switch flipped. You know that scene in the Exorcist when the girl pees all over the carpet, and then the scene where she spews green acid, and then the scene where her head spins around? Combine all three and you have my daughter.
Not only are we toilet training, but suddenly the girl who could tell you all the major dinosaur names when she was two has a one-word vocabulary— No. Correction, make that two words. No and Nuh-huh. Nuh-huh is what she says when I ask her if she wants something like an ice cream. She starts to say no because that’s what she always says, but mid-word she realizes her mistake so she changes it to uh-huh.
The worst thing about it is she’s not the only one going through a change. I have officially turned into a monster. The other day when she jumped onto my computer without permission and accidentally ordered plane tickets to Kazakhstan, I bit her head off, chewed it up and spit it out across the room. Literally. Well, not literally, but man did I want to. Side note, I keep pushing other on the airlines automated phone system because I have no idea who I should talk to. It looks like we’ll just be going to Kazakhstan next year instead of our friends’ wedding. Anyone else want to go? She bought 7 tickets.
Anyway, I don’t know what jackass came up with the phrase the terrible twos. I’m assuming some childless poet who had a thing for alliteration because guess what. The twos are bliss compared to the threes. I’ve been trying to come up with some alliterative word that goes with three, but so far I haven’t come up with anything good enough. So for now I’m going to start calling them the Mommy-goes-to-prison-threes. Or the Mommy-gets-committed-threes. It could go either way. The good news is, I can probably continue to write my blog from prison or the insane asylum.