I pride myself on knowing a bit more than my husband about kids.
Okay. A LOT MORE. (He doesn't read this, so what do I care about offending him? Never stopped me before... heh).
I mean, I've been around kids, in one capacity or another, my whole entire life. I babysat for years, and worked daily with children with various disabilities, and I'm pretty decent with the young ones. Sure, I needed a diaper changing refresher, a "how-to-get-a-child-to-sleep-off-my-boob" tutorial, and still need some help with the whole broken bone thing, but all in all, I'm good. Kids like me DAMNIT.
I have gotten picky kids to eat something other than candy, I can distract a child from an extremely painful blood draw with an amazing song and dance routine (for which I garner quite a pretty penny), and I can usually win over even the shyest and most cautious of all children with my charm and pretty cool accents.
However, it was made apparent to me today at the grocery store that I have yet to earn my "wings," because without even thinking twice, I bought my daughter the following:
1) Pooh Rubber Ink Stampers
2 A Harmonica
Go ahead. Whip me with a wet noodle.
Maybe I'll get my promotion next year.