I rolled up to a family birthday party with the girls. It was Captain’s side of the family, but there was no Captain.

So where was he?

“He’s replacing the brake pads and rotors on my car.”

“He took it somewhere to get it done?”

“Nope, he’s doing it himself.”

Blank stares.

He’s in his happy place, under a car and I’m in mine, at a party, oblivious to how many juice boxes are being guzzled.

The drive to the party was uneventful. BB played with a new birthday present: a bitzee. And RB took a nap.

You may or may not be familiar with the bitzee mania. It is a small digital pet. The photo doesn’t really do it justice. It’s interactive. It moves, lights up and makes sounds. It’s digitally adorable and highly addictive, at least for the little people in my family.

On the drive home BB whipped out her bitzee. RB begged for a turn. Pleaded for a turn. Whined. Yelled. Grabbed. Tantrumed. Cried the most-heartbroken tears one can cry.

BB clung to her Precious.

She was worried RB would damage it and that I would not want to buy her another one.

Both valid concerns.

As we sat in stop and go traffic on 95 and World War III raged in my backseat, I made the game-time decision that BB did not have to share it, but she did have to put it away so she wasn’t taunting RB with it.

RB couldn’t stop crying. Tears rolled silently down her cheeks for the remainder of the ride.

Then I had what I thought was a brilliant idea. I said,

“RB, if you want to spend your own money you can buy one for yourself.”

“I can buy my own itsy bitzee?!”

“If you have $25.”

The minute we pulled up to the house she made a mad dash for her wallet.

Captain was ready to show off his hard work. He told me,

“The back tires are done!”

“New rotors too?”

I have no idea what I’m talking about. I learned how to spell rotors today.

“Yup, performance ones. You can see them.”

“I can?”

Captain points out my new, shiny rotors.

“Performance?”

“Yes! See those lines and grooves there?”

“Yes.”

“That’s what makes them performance”

Aha. I didn’t know I needed performance rotors.

I head inside. RB is trying to count her money. Ones, fives, tens, twenties are spread across her bed. They’re all being counted as one each. I count out $25. She bursts into tears,

“You’re going to take all of my tooth fairy money?”

“I don’t have to take any of it, only if you want to buy a bitzee.”

RB sobs and says,

“I do want to buy an itsy bitzee.”

And she did. She fell in love.

I tried to keep track of it and put it away when I didn’t want her to be using it. Turns out I failed.

I dropped her off at school and a teacher remarked,

“That’s a cool toy she brought in yesterday.”

“What did she bring in?”

RB is already hanging her head and refusing to make eye contact.

“That little blue box you open up.”

“I had no idea she brought that in! She wasn’t allowed to!”

RB’s bitzee is hidden away until further notice. I recount all of this to Captain.

Our child has always done whatever the heck she wants and couldn’t care less about anyone’s “rules.” Except apparently at school, where she’s mysteriously well-behaved.

At a playdate the other day, I overheard her tell her friend,

“This is my sister’s. Don’t tell her we’re using it. She doesn’t let me.”

If someday she’s climbing out of her bedroom window and sneaking off, I will not be surprised.

I will be jumping in my performance Toyota Highlander, finding my wild child and stopping on a dime, because I think that’s what my new fancy rotors are for?

And if anyone has an answer to the sibling fighting, please send help.