The true meaning of trailer

Devon’s love affair with superhero costumes began some time back in early August. I can’t recall the exact date, I just remember it was easier to buy him a costume so that I could shop through Target in peace than it was to deal with his constant not-so-quiet chatter of, “Hey. Hey, Mai-Mai, I need a Batman suit. Now. Now, I neeeeeeeeed it!” In the months since then he has been The Flash, Spider Man and, more recently, Super Man.
Last week Devon and I were at a late afternoon meeting, something I hate to do more than just about anything, when he began chattering in my ear about his needs. It was a preschool teacher meeting. I hadn’t understood the email, I thought daycare was provided but my dyslexia must have smacked me in the head because that was not at all the case. So there I was in a room full of other preschool teachers, all of them cool, collected and filled with peace. The longer the meeting went on, the more Devon chattered in my ear and the more I wanted to scream and run in search of some tequila to ease the pain. Finally, after about 20 minutes I reached my thresh hold and whispered none too quietly into his ear, “Yes, okay. If you will just be quiet I will indeed get you that Super Man suit.” And after some negotiations from Devon I replied, “For Christ’s sake, yes. We will go to Wal Mart and get the damn thing as soon as we are done here.” Devon heaved a sigh of contentment and curled up in a chair while the other teachers watched me in utter horror. I know. Bad move with the bribery and all, but I was on Mommy Time and sometimes you just gotta do what you gotta do to get through.
When we finally got to Wal Mart Devon headed straight to the costume aisle and started rifling through the hero section. It took us a few minutes but we found just the one and he started cackling and jumping up and down with glee. After maneuvering through the checkout line I was putting away my wallet when I spied Devon crouched down on the floor of the front door. There he was calmly removing his pants and shirt so that he could slip in to his new get up. The other shoppers were pointing, some of them even gasping as my child quickly stripped down and donned his nylon get up. I stood there wondering which was worse, my bribe or his discount store nudity. And I am still struggling for the answer.