Marshmallow Therapy

Since my strong opinions are all tired out resting quietly in their plush brain of a crib I thought I'd take this time to share one of my many vivid childhood memories.

I was the first kid on the block to have twins AND a preemie (cabbage patch kids that is).

I was part of the in-crowd rocking L.A. Gear high tops in terrific teal & popping purple on the first day of 6th grade.

I was no stranger to garbage pail kid's cards having had a sweet stack that would send other boys & girls running home crying with embarrassment over their weak so-called collections.

I never went without the matching $5 (or 3 for $12) "scrunchy" for each and every "Wet Seal" ensemble hanging in my preteen closet.

Are you getting the picture yet?

I pretty much had it all. Well, materialistically that is.

And we all as grown adults know (or at least subconsciously) that these "things" are not really what matters.

But when your a kid it sure as Haiti does!

So therapist, today I am letting go of the fact that my dear, sweet, perfect mother never allowed me to experience something that all the other kids were raving over.

No, it wasn't the Vanilla Ice c.d.

It was indeed: Jet Puff.

Yes, that's correct: Marshmallow fluff/Jet Puff/Jet Puffed.

I would ask nicely: Pretty please, pretty face, pretty body?

I would beg: Pleeeeeeeeeeazzzzzzeeee mom!? Just once lets buy it?

I would threaten the worst: I can't believe you won't let me have that! I might as well die!

And yet my Oscar nominated attempts failed each and every time.

But as of this very moment I vow to never feel another emotion over this never granted childhood request.

I relinquish all jet puff angst right here and now,

Roundtooth