Polly Parrot
“Mommy!” the little girl cries as she tugs at her mother’s hand, wide brown eyes never leaving their focus on the robotic parrot on a shelf across the isle. She tugs again when her mother doesn’t answer quickly enough for her six-year-old patience.
Her voice whines. “Mommy!”
“What is it, Annie?”
“Mommy, look!” The little girl points to her prize, voice excited. “Can I have him? Please?”
The woman glances at the brightly packaged mechanical parrot and shakes her eyes, sighing harshly. “Maybe for your birthday.”
A determined pout comes over the small child’s face when she finds herself denied. “Why? I’ll be good! Promise!”
“We don’t have time for this. You’re going to have to wait if you want it that badly.”
“But that’s so far away, an’ I want it now!” Her little foot hits the polished floor of the store with enough force to make her auburn curls bounce, the whining voice warning of an oncoming temper tantrum.
Her mother looks at her sharply, her voice hard. “Ann Marie Burton, don’t even think of causing a scene here.”
Annie falls into a disgruntled silence, knowing that if she continued, she’d be stuck without TV that afternoon, but she just had to have the brightly feathered parrot! She even knew the perfect name for him: Polly! They turn to the checkout, and Annie knows that if she doesn’t act fast, she won’t be getting her toy.
“Jimmy said his mommy is getting it for him! Why can’t I have one, too?”
Her mom starts piling items on the counter. “Because your birthday’s in one week.”
“But that’s so long,” she interrupts, holding to “o” out in “long” and mustering tears to her eyes. “I want him now!”
Her mom smiles apologetically to the indifferent clerk before looking back down at her. “That’s just too bad, young lady. Now if you don’t hush, you get no TV.”
Young eyes widen just before the tears spill over. “But mommy, I just want Polly!”
“‘But mommy’ nothing. Now hush and behave yourself while I pay the nice lady.”
She represses another whine, and waits until her mother turns to pay before bolting back to the toy section as fast as her little legs could carry her. Her hands are just shy of grabbing the object of her desire when she feels herself lifted off the ground by angry hands. She turns and looks directly into the furious eyes of her mother.
“Ann Marie Burton, you’re not getting that toy. And no TV tonight or tomorrow.” Her mother sentences her before stalking back to the bag-laden cart, holding her imprisoned in firm arms. The little girl wails all the way home.