As we were pulling out of the Costco parking lot this weekend, Heidi asked if she could have a croissant. Sure, why not? Nothing wrong with a buttery, flaky croissant except I don't make a habit of keeping a croissant on my person. So I told her, "Sorry babe, but I don't have a croissant," and then a blistering rage rolled out of her thirty-five pound body.
The ride home looked something like this:
The whole way home she screamed, and cried, and convulsed, "I WANT A CROISSANT! I WANT A CROISSANT!" Stuff was shooting out of her mouth and her nose. It wasn't until we got home that I realized she hadn't been asking for a croissant, but a Capri-Sun, which I found to be somewhat disappointing. It was bad enough that I'd had to listen to her temper tantrum for ten miles because she couldn't have a fancy, French pastry, but pitching a fit over a bag of juice? It's what the French call malappris, or ill-bred.
I call it: grownin' me some malappris young-ungs.
