Marlo came home from school last Friday so excited to give me the ornament she had made for me in Kindergarten, this felt penguin with googly eyes. I rejoiced and clapped my hands and exclaimed, “For me?!” And before handing it over she held up her palm as an indicator that I should calm the hell down.
“You have to be careful,” she warned.
“I will be very careful,” I assured her as I picked it up by the ribbon on its head.
“Mom,” she continued as if I didn’t fully grasp it. “It’s held together with nothing but a hot glue gun. Do you know what that is?”
I stood there with the blankest, most “do you even know what religion I grew up in?” look on my face. Before I could answer she explained, “That thing could just fall apart!”
Do I know what a hot glue gun is. First, I’m not even going to dignify that question. Second, it’s not held together by a hot glue gun. It’s held together by the glue from the gun. But I did not point that out and instead hung my penguin at her height on the tree next to the Pac-Man ornament I made for my mom in 1st grade.