Every Friday I dig into the archives and dust off an old post. If you haven’t read it, it’s new to you!
There are certain things prenatal and parenting classes don’t prepare you for. Oh sure, they cover the basics, like childbirth (“Husbands, get out of the way and let her do her thing. Whatever unhelpful colorful terms she calls you, that is your new identity. Live with it.”), or proper disciplinary techniques (“Sweetie, what have I told you about licking Daddy’s friends?”), or basic nutritional values (“Oh, that Pop-Tart has ‘fruit filling’? Knock yourself out.”)
But I’ve never taken a class or read a book or gotten advice on a new era that has invaded our home, our lives, and our psyches:
I’m talking about the curse of the sticker book.
If you don’t have a female offspring, you may not know about the sticker fascination. My sons played with sticks, not stickers. Any adhesive-based recreation they participated in as preschoolers usually involved their own mucus. If I’d ever seen them with a googly-eyed unicorn affixed to their person, I would have immediately signed them up for military school.