But, alas, there is a vast selection of glitter in aisle four. There is a big bottle of oh, maybe, a katrillion pieces of silver glitter. There are little jars of metallic colors (at least five million to a jar) and little bags of bright primary colors (definitely two billion to a bag). Too many choices. Too much glitter.

Pinny had asked for glitter for his new science project/business venture/hobby, which is (drumroll, please) making stress balls out of balloons filled with flour, glue, glitter, cornstarch, and whatever else he can get his hands on. His early stress balls, which he made before he turned into the official Rockland County ten-year-old expert on stress relief, will sell for 50 cents. The fancy ones with glitter will be a dollar, and the jumbo ones with Sharpie decorations will be $1.50. Just think of that — a buck-fifty to rid you of stress. A metziah if ever there was one.

A good mom would whisk that glitter off the shelf faster than you could say, “Dollar Tree.” And I am a good mom, okay? I’m a good mom for even considering buying and bringing something so dangerous into the house.

Yes, dangerous. Lethal. To my cleanliness. To my sanity. Tiny balloon necks are way too narrow for a kid to neatly fill with glitter. That glitter will be everywhere. My soup, my counters, my table, nestled cozily into my sheitel. I know this to be true. I am not a new mom. This ain’t my first rodeo.

Could I have him do his project outdoors? Hmmm. Not when it’s 20 degrees. Would laying out a plastic tablecloth indoors help? Probably not — it wouldn’t contain flyaway glitter.

Remembering the sprinkle incident of 2013, I shudder.

Someone who will forever remain nameless (to you, but will be remembered quite clearly ’til the end of time by me), grabbed a jar of sprinkles and — for no apparent reason except that persistent, unconscious desire to make my life even more of a circus — shook it.

The last person to have used the jar had neglected to screw it tightly closed, and those nonpareils flew valiantly to all corners of the kitchen. Some intrepid ones made it all the way into the dining room.

Those nonpareils were the bane of my existence from the beginning of January until the end of March. I swept, gave up, spotted some more, mopped, grumbled, threw my hands up in despair, found a few more in hidden crevices.

And as far as I’m concerned, glitter is a second cousin, once removed, to sprinkles. Its potential for irreparable mess: double — no, triple — that of the sprinkles.

Really, I should just not purchase something that I am 100 percent sure will irk me.

Really, I should encourage his entrepreneurial spirit, especially one that is keeping him away from screens.

Really, it’s hard to be a parent. All that balancing your needs versus his needs.

I stand there for a few minutes, debating.

Thunk. Five little jars of metallic glitter hit the bottom of my shopping cart.

There they sit, nestled among the birthday cards and cans of frosting, twinkling and winking as if to say, “Oh, Peshie, we knew you’d do it.”

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 940)