"I want an Ice Cream Cone Pinata for my birthday party," said Maya. "I want it to have two scoops. Blueberry Ice Cream and Strawberrry Ice Cream."
I happen to think blueberry ice cream would be pretty nasty, but whatever. I just work here.
I began this slave labor of Love with two bombas and flour-water glue on Sunday night.
My mother taught me fine art of pinata crafting when I was knee high to a grasshopper. I decided to pass my priceless knowledge down to my own rugrats.
I have been told some mothers do not allow children to sit on the dinner table and kitchen counters. In my house it is encouraged as long as they promise not to pass gas... too much...
My philosophy is this:
You can lead a child to a pinata, but you can't make him drink.
Also:
You can look a gift pinata in the mouth only if it is shaped like a disney princess or super hero or Spongebob.
Similarly:
If you GIVE a child a fish pinata he will find joy in it's destruction. If you teach him how to make a pinata shaped like a fish, he will create pinatas his whole life long and suffer greatly at the brutality said pinata will surely encounter.
My kids helped me with the pinata for exactly 5.2 seconds before they became bored and started taping streamers to the ceiling fan and microwave.
I flew solo for 6 hours today. 6 HOURS!
TAAA DAAAA!
Say your prayers, Pinata. You die at 5pm sharp.
I'm sooo glad I put a great deal of effort into a project that will be battered and abused and destroyed by children who are EAGERLY awaiting their turn to inflict undue damage. This violence will take place before my very eyes.
It's a SICK tradition.
I love it!
Happy Birthday, Maya Moo! I love you, baby girl.
