Ever since we decided to give our kids an allowance, they have become fascinated with the mason jar we gave them to hold their money. Each pay day, they gather at the table where we ceremoniously drop in their money, an amount calculated according to their age.
The six year-old is fully aware that his jar has less in it than his two older brothers. Just another harsh reality for the third son in the family.
"My shop is open, Mom," says my six year-old. He jangles his jar, and holds it towards me. He's not begging; he knows I'm a sucker for his massage service, where he'll offer to knead my back, my arms, or my hands—for only 25¢ a pop. It's an incredible deal for me, who is too thrifty and frugal to take myself to an actual spa, even though I dream of it daily. So my quarters have started to raise the level in his jar of money, trying to close the gap of injustice created by his rotten luck of being born after his brothers.
My little entrepreneur even understands that the consumer loves a good bargain, and offered "Ladies Night" a few nights ago, where I received the same gentle but loving massage on my aching shoulders for only a nickel (I bought two sessions).
I don't know how long this will last, but I will be his faithful customer to the end. And I've decided to be loyal, through the struggling economy and all.
The other night, as I prepared to be pampered by my miniature businessman, I got out my change. "Twenty-five cents, right?" I asked, secretly hoping it was Ladies Night again.
"No," he sighed, apologetically. "I'm sorry to say, the price has gone up. I have to charge you 28¢ now."
"Whoa," I say, trying to hide my amusement. "That's steep."
"I'm really sorry," he said again. "But I'm saving up for an electric guitar."
No comments:
Post a Comment