The One In Which I'm Not As Cute As I Thought I Was

The story of LiLu, the 4-Year-Old Kleptomaniac is a very famous one in the LivitLuvit household. Any and all friends stopping by are guaranteed to hear it at least once (although it might sound just a smidge different from my version. For some reason, there’s no Beast involved when my mom tells it. Family politics). But one thing that never changes is the dénouement, in which LiLu is finally broken of her felonistic ways.

My father quickly grew weary of my thieving tendencies (and probably of having to spank my wee bottom as well) and was determined to break me of my little habit. If I was caught in or near the store of said misdemeanor, I was of course forced to return the hot item(s) to a manager and apologize for my actions. This was supposed to let me know that I had done something wrong, and should be “sorry”. In theory, it sounds good, but there was a glitch in the system: I was too damn cute.

Every time I apologized to the “authorities,” they took one look at my chubby cherub cheeks (alliteration is fun!) and said, “Ohhhhh, that’s okay! Don’t worry about it, sweetie!” or my father’s personal favorite, “That’s okay, dear, you go ahead and keep it!” I can see the smoke that must have been coming out of his ears as kind-faced managers not only condoned my crimes, but actually rewarded them.

Finally, he’d had enough. (Or maybe we were running out of Wooden Spoons- who knows?) We were at a grocery store- as any child knows, the check out lines of a supermarket are by far the worst for temptations. Candies and gum galore; knick knacks and coloring books by the dozen; overflowing paraphenalia of whatever Disney/Dreamworks movie is giving away Happy Meals toys at the moment. And in this case… pink and purple sparkly Barbie pencils.

You might as well have showed me a baby unicorn that pooped out Polly Pocket pieces and could make cookies with my EZ Bake Oven while I prepared the tea party.

This time, I didn’t even ask for the object of my affection. That was far too risky- he’d watch me like a hawk. Instead, I surreptitiously palmed the glittery pencil and did my best to look nonchalant. (I’m pretty sure I couldn’t even work a pencil sharpener yet, but so. not. the point.)

Alas, my best was not (nearly) good enough. My exasperated father had me collared before I could even slip the purloined pencil into my pocket (wheeeee!). I knew it was bad when he, shaking with fury, asked the cashier to “WATCH HER” and stormed off in search of the manager. (I guess the pimply faced pre-teen at the register wasn’t going to cut it as far as inspiring fear.) But I’d been here before, we’d danced this dance. I waited patiently for a grandfatherly owner or Mrs. Claus-esque manager to come pat me on the head and give me a Tootsie pop.

What I didn’t know was that my father? Had officially had it.

Determined to cure me of my light-fingered ways, he briefed the manager on the situation and firmly instructed him to in no way condone her actions or let her think that what she has done is ‘okay.’ In fact, he told him, you could even help me out if you want to scare her a little, tell her that stealing is WRONG, so she finally stops!

“No problem,” the manager said. No problem indeed.

As I bravely faced my father and the manager, lip trembling and a tear glistening in my eye, I played out the part I had so many times before. “I’m very sorry,” I chirped, holding out the coveted pencil as a peace offering. “I won’t do it again.”

The manager loomed over me, glaring and frothing at the mouth. I cannot describe how horrible he was… but in my mind’s eye, he looked something like this:

“Do you know,” he hissed dangerously, “What happens to little girls who STEAL?”

“N-no sir,” I stammered, taken aback at this turn of events.

“Little girls who STEAL,” he cackled, “Go to JAIL. They are LOCKED away for years and years and they NEVER EVER see their families AGAIN!!!” He thundered, shaking his finger menacingly at me. Shocked, I started to cry- for real.

My father tried to interrupt, “Uh, okay, that’s great, I think she’s got the picture-”

“Little girls who STEAL never get to eat ice cream or go swimming!!!” he thundered. “They live alone with no friends or Crayola to keep them company!” I was wailing with fear at this point, and my father hurriedly dragged me away and out the door, yelling over his shoulder, “Thanks for your help! See you round!”

He felt terrible, and I don’t think we ever went back to that grocery store again. But you know what? That glittery pencil was the last damn thing I ever stole.

Awesome google search of the day leading them to me: “monkey snuggle duck.”