How does the Chicken, the Devil, and a Dandelion Cross the Road?

As my children are getting a little older I’m facing the quota of the precious few moments during childhood when parents get to choke on their, “Praise Jesus it’s not my kids!” in the RUMBLE OF screaming, whining, kicking, fighting, nose-picking, dirt-eating, head-spinning-tantrum-throwing, INSANITY that is every place where there are kids.
God have mercy on the mother and daughter I encountered in Chick-fil-A today. (We were playing in the indoor tubes/slides thingy, which, fortunately is sound-proof to the dining area.) Mom said, “We’re going to get ready to leave soon. Go ahead down the slide again, then we’ll go.” Daughter turned Emily Rose and I thought the Dark Lord himself gobbled up that little girl and was headed to mom next. Horns popped right out her forehead; she grew a barbed black tail through her lavender sun dress, and her forked tongue hissed and spit and sought to devour.
I don’t know whether the mother was previously aware that her child was Satan’s spawn or if she was simply as horrified as the rest of the room; but she just stood there with limp arms and vacant Stepford Wives party face while the nine cirlces of hell invaded toddler land. One mother fished around in her purse for the rosary while another one lashed together some umbrellas to fashion a cross. My only thought was for my kids. I didn’t want their cutthroat instincts to kick in on account of this prosaic performance and inspire them to school the wee thespian on how the masters do it.
So we high-tailed it and left the rest to the exorcism.
In related news, another sporadic parental power is wish-granting, so if ever you have opportunity to grant a kid’s wish, JFDI no matter the size. Yesterday Evelina wished on the airborne dandelion seeds she blew to freedom (and multiplication.) She sat in the weeds clutching her dandelion and whispered her wish into her other hand. She said it was a secret because wishes don’t come true if you tell them. (As though I don’t know such things.)
Later in the car she was beside herself in anticipation of her wish coming true. She gave me a clue about it. (I guess that’s not against wish-coming-true policy.) “It has to do something about numbers, Mama.” I guessed that she was excited about her birthday when she’ll be six (because Colin is six), which isn’t for another year, but you know how it is when you’re five.
“No. I mean it’s about numbers, MOM.”
“I can’t possibly guess, Evelina. You’ve stumped me.”
“Fine. I wished I could COUNT TO 400!”
Betcha can’t guess what we did on the hour-long drive home from Grandma’s house.
She thinks I’m magic because I made her wish come true. And that rocks!