My sister, Cristine, used poor judgment when she left my little niece, Debbie, with me in that toy store. She should have known that any four-year-old that demands to be called “Diva Debbie” needs to be supervised closely, which I am clearly not capable of doing.

“Fran, can you watch Debbie for a minute?” Cristine asked as she rummaged through her wallet. “I just need to run to the ATM, so I can get money to buy her that play make-up. I don’t have enough cash.”

“Well, maybe we should just go with you,” I said, looking down at Debbie. My niece was decked out in low-rider jeans that were decorated with purple rhinestones. The little hot pink jacket with the fake fur on the collar really topped off the outfit.

“The mall is full of ATMs, I’ll be right back,” said Cristine as she zipped her purse closed. “I’m sure Debbie would rather hang out with you in the toy store for a few minutes, than run through the mall with me.  Right, Debbie?” Cristine asked as she bent down and put her hand on Debbie’s shoulder.

“I’m ‘Diva Debbie', Mom,” my niece declared as she brushed my sister’s hand off her shoulder. “Diva Debbie.”

“Sorry, Diva Debbie. I forgot,” Cristine responded apologetically.  My sister acted like she was a lowly toy provider in a kingdom ruled by a four-year-old queen.

“I think we should just go with you,” I suggested. I didn’t really want to be left alone with my niece. There really needed to be a responsible adult close by.

Debbie grabbed my hand, jumped up and down and sang, “I want to stay here and play with you, Auntie Fran.”

“Ok,” I said, giving in way too quickly.  “We can hang out here until your mother comes back.”

“Great,” my sister said triumphantly, “I’ll be right back.” She turned and walked away and left me with the diva – alone.

“Let’s go look at the bikes,” Debbie commanded as she pulled on my hand.

“Ok, that’s fine,” I answered, feeling defeated and a bit manipulated.  “But you have to stay close to me, no running off,” I declared.  Before I could give any further instructions about behavioral limitations and expectations, Debbie let go of my hand and ran.

“Debbie! Wait for me!” I shouted, hoping she would just stop running and wait.  Of course, she didn’t listen and just ran faster, so I took off after her. When I finally caught up with her, she was in the bike aisle, sitting on a little pink bike, pretending like it was a motorcycle.

“Wroom, wroom,” she said as she hopped up and down on the bike.

“Debbie, why didn’t you wait for me? I told you to wait for me.”  I said in the sternest voice I could muster up.

She then stopped bouncing, pointed her finger at me, rolled her eyes and said, “If you want me to listen to you, then you have to call me by my name. I’m a diva, Auntie Fran. I’m Diva Debbie. Do you understand?”

I was stunned. Before I could think of what to say (or do) to her, she scrambled down off the bike, put her hand on her stomach and then said four words that I did not want to hear.

“What did you say?” I asked, putting my hands on my hips, hoping to God that I misunderstood.

“I have to poop – now!”  Debbie crossed her legs, bent over and started wiggling.

“Can you please hold it?” I begged.  “Just wait until your mother gets back, so she can help you.”

“I’m a big girl, I can go to the bathroom by myself, but I have to go now!” she screamed.  She put her hand on her hip and rolled her eyes at me again.

I grabbed her by the hand and we ran to a teenaged salesgirl that was working at the other end of the bike aisle. “Miss!” I shouted, even though she was standing right in front off me. “Where is your bathroom?”

“Our bathroom is for employees only.  You have to go to the food court,” she said without even looking up at me.

“I have to go really bad!”  Debbie shouted as she put her hand on her rear and jumped up and down. “I am going to have an accident – now!”

“Okay,” said the salesgirl, looking down at Debbie.  “Go straight back. At the end of the bike aisle, there’s a door. Just be careful because it swings outward and the first bike in the row is pretty close to the door.”

I turned quickly and ran back up the bike aisle with Debbie in tow. “Get out of the way, she has to poop!” I shouted angrily to no one in particular. I was completely frustrated.

When we got to the end of the bike aisle, I pulled the door open and flipped the light on.  Debbie ran inside and I went in behind her.  I quickly covered the toilet seat with toilet paper to prevent contact with any cooties.

Debbie struggled with her heart-shaped belt buckle. I attempted to help her, but she quickly put her hand up, a little too close to my face, and said, “I’m a diva. I can go to the bathroom by myself.”

“Fine,” I said, gritting my teeth.  “I’ll wait outside.” I took a few steps back, then closed the door. Once the door was closed I took another step back and bumped into a bike. I quickly turned around and steadied the teetering bike in the rack.

At this point, I was pretty agitated. My sister was taking too long and Debbie was going to need help in the bathroom. I decided to call her.  As I rummaged in my purse in search of my cell phone, I imagined my sister lounging in some secret place in the mall where parents go to party when they drop their children off at the toy store to be babysat by videogames, stuffed animals and gullible relatives like me.

Before I could even dial my sister’s number, I heard Debbie in the bathroom saying, “Heeeere kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty. Heeeere kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty.”

I knocked on the door.  “Deb.., I mean, Diva Debbie.  What are you doing in there?”

“There’s a kitty in here.  I got him from behind the toilet.  He’s stuck on a plate that has honey on it.  I can’t get him off. I’m going to take him home and dress him up. Can kitties walk in high heels?”

“What? What did you say?” I asked.

I opened the door and peeked inside.  When I saw my sister’s child, standing there, petting that thing, I fell to my knees and screamed.

To Be Continued