The Day Peppa the Pig Almost Killed Me

Now that we are an official family of four, I have made a concerted effort to still give the first born some undivided "mommy and Bug" time. Overall, the toddler terrorist has accepted the newest member of our family without question. She doesn't act out in jealousy and is actually quite sweet to the baby. It is really lovely to watch and my heart grows exponentially on a daily basis. But sometimes I think back fondly on the times that she had my undivided attention, and as such I imagine that perhaps she does too. Which is how we found ourselves on a little mommy/daughter date at Peppa the friggin' Pig Live.

We have done Disney on Ice. I have sat through many an animated movie. So far, I have been entertained and only slightly bored. But Peppa the Pig may have ruined all things children for me. There were a few red flags that should have warned me, but like a girl determined to marry a bad boy I ignored all the obvious signs and forged forward.

First of all, the ticket prices were seriously ridiculous. If I wanted to pay an insane amount of money for two tickets to watch pig puppets jump in pretend muddy puddles, I would have paid to attend both Democrat and Republican presidential debates. I broke the bank to sit in the nose bleed balcony seats where we practically needed binoculars to see Peppa being pushed around the stage by a covert operative dressed all in black. But I approached the event with hope, wishing in vain that perhaps the show would be worth eating canned tuna until the next payday.

As we arrived, I noticed multiple bars surrounded with adults stocking up on beer, wine and cocktails as though their hydration depended on it. That was the second red flag. "Hmm, that's strange," I thought to myself. It's rare to see alcohol served at a children's function. Two seconds into the show, I totally got it. I was regretting my decision not to indulge in libations myself. I would have given my fancy left pinkie to be swimming in a vat of vodka while pretending to be deeply engaged in the drama of Peppa the Pig for the sake of my imaginative toddler.

As I tried to keep myself from nodding off into a blissful sleep where I was anywhere but trapped in a theater enduring a story line centered around whether or not Daddy Pig would break the muddy puddle splash record, my toddler terrorist squealed in delight. I rubbed my eyes and squinted at the stage. Oh, god. Is that a talking potato? Definitely did not see that plot twist coming. And just as I thought I could not take one more second listening to a whiny pig puppet lament the fact that her dear daddy pig did not practice jumping in muddy puddles, the show concluded and I was free.

As I gleefully made my escape as quickly as I could, my toddler terrorist grabbed my hand, squeezed it and patted me on the back. She jumped in pretend muddy puddles on the walk back to the car, and I forgot the torture of the past hour as she happily chattered away. As I drove away I had to chuckle with the realization that I would do just about anything to see that little girl smile. Even endure Peppa the damn Pig.