twenty-seven dollars.

Last Thursday the pirates and I went to a toy store. 

They browsed for a while,

when almost simultaneously two of them found toys they simply could not live without. 

And they were serious.

For a total of ten minutes I listened to their scenarios. 

Around minute nine 

they explained that if we did not purchase the toys

they would no longer exist.

Robs was in love with a finger-puppet theatre. 

Enriqueboy had fallen for a speed boat with a wind-up motor.

Robs' theatre was plush, sewn with assorted colors of felt,

and the front curtains attached to the side with velcro.

"Robs," I said, "It's soft- and the doors to the stage will bend."

(They were cardboard covered in felt.)

Robs came back saying how she loved soft things, 

and since it was soft she could bring it with her to sleep.

I had her look at the price tag. 

Twenty-seven dollars. 

I summoned motherly patience and reminded her it was a nopety-nope.

Robs uses reasoning, five year old reasoning, of course. 

But my middle pirate? His tactics are simple.

He continually gets louder and louder. 

I've only caved twice- 

Once when I was seventeen months pregnant with Squísh, 

and once when she was just barely born. 

But it never hurts to try when you're three.

He put the boat down two seconds before we walked out the door

and stormed his way to our auto. 

It took thirty minutes to drive home 

and slightly more than that to settle down.

The next day the pirates and I found a cereal box, 

a broken hanger, 

fabric scraps,

a hot glue gun, 

some rhinestones

and contact paper.

It took us all morning to make,

but Robs told me she likes it as much as the other one.

And when we added finger puppet squirrels 

(from when Steve was a child)

everything went back to being 

okay-times-ten.