The Mouse didn’t say a word. She didn’t need to. I saw the ‘you’re-a-loser-daddy’ look on her face as she gazed across the table at the 10″ tall foam witch complete with broomstick and cauldron. The PlayFoam witch maker gave me similar eyes as she planted her flag atop Awesome Parent Mountain, claiming victory over my feeble snowman. She spoke in that unnecessarily-loud-so-that-everyone-can-hear-me voice to her son as we all sat in the arts & crafts room of the Please Touch Museum: “do you want the witch to have a broom?”, “do you want a fiery cauldron for the witch that I made because I can and this overweight bozo over there can’t, sweetie?”
The Mouse peering over at the foam witch
Sure, I could have defended my shortcomings by attacking your creation. It would have been almost too easy to point out that your witch was a bit top-heavy and the handle on the pot, a touch droopy. But however accurate those critiques would’ve been, they also would have been petty. So I’ll simply say touche, foam witch maker. You bested me this time, but should we meet again at the Please Touch you can rest assured that I’ll have something new in store for you: Foamhenge? Foamthenon? Machu Foamcchu? You’ll just have to wait and see.
I’ve ordered 5 lbs of the crap from Amazon. Prepare to be amazed, Mouse.
Until next time, Foam Witch Lady.
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