My sister and I outfoxed each other on the cool-aunt/you-bought-WHAT?! dichotomy this year. I sent her 2.5-year old a romping stomping dinosaur outfit that roars and growls with every movement, and she sent my husband and daughter a remote-control car. A big one. A LOUD one. The package was super late even though it was mailed early, and arrived the evening before we left for a 2-day jaunt up to Gothenburg to pick up a car. Consequently, Karin was able to open the present, but not play with it, engendering 2 days of endless comments and questions about playing with her car the second we got home, interrupted only by the few hours we were actually at the wonderful reebert‘s place where there were TWO dogs to occupy her mind.
Upon returning, she made a beeline for the car and proceeded to roar it up and down one side of the house after the other, narrowly avoiding a major disaster when the car roared under the Christmas tree and upon being put in reverse, hooked a string of lights and began pulling it out and off the dangerously swaying tree while Anders and I screamed and frantically dove for her and the remote.
Sarah, if that tree had come crashing down, I would not be writing a journal entry right now. I would be buying plane tickets online for tomorrow to come and THROTTLE you.
The living room is now off-limits to cars. The driveway, however, is FULL of them, as we now (temporarily) own THREE. So decadent! Except that one is the Nissan, a grungy white scraptrap, soon to be sold, hopefully. The new (used) silver Audi is a dream to drive, even through 3 hours of rainy windyness.
Martin, in the meantime, has copped a major attitude and decided that I am “NOT NICE.” I thought the teenage years weren’t supposed to start until they were in double-digits, but apparently I thought wrong.