Me, age 8: Mom, can we go into the rock store?
My Mom’s Response: Okay. But just for a few minutes.
What My Response as a Parent Would Be: You are so goddamn stupid. Are you kidding me? No, stop walking and look at me. Are. You. Kidding? You want to go into a store that sells bullshit that is all over every yard on the planet? Sure, we can go to the rock store. Just so long as you are patient with me when I’m ready to go into the store that sells blades of grass just pulled out of the ground and set on a table. If you go into that store, I hope you like it, because I’m leaving you there forever. You can get a job sweeping up, something I can’t imagine they bother with at a rock store because you are trying to sell the very stuff other stores are sweeping up. I’m so angry at you right now. Get in the car. No, sit up front. I want you to live in fear that I might decide to bump into another car just to kill you with the airbag. That way the ride home will give you a nice opportunity to reflect on your life, the choices you’ve made, and help you decide if you’re going to ask me to take you to the rock store ever again.