Once she had recovered from the near-miss at the Splat Ball stand, The Child was more reluctant to venture too far from me. This suited me fine as the mall was by now getting fairly crowded and I was getting tired.

She inquires what I was doing right before I came to get her. I tell her, I was looking at pans in Macy’s.

Oh! she says. I just remembered I need to look at something in Macy’s, too.

We head to Macy’s, where I am instructed to wait among the handbags on the first floor, while she heads the escalator, to housewares.

My phone pings with a text.

If u were to have the most perfect set of pots ever, than what would it be? she asks.

Uh-oh. I do not want to send her over to All-Clad or Le Creuset and have The Child realize that Mommy has champagne taste and The Child has a beer budget.

Ohhh, I don’t really need pots, I reply. I need baking pans.

Also, I add, almost all my corningware has been broken.

Okay, thanks! She replies.

A few minutes later, the phone pings again.

So, she wants to know, you mean the kind of pans you would put in an oven?

Yes, I tell her.

Okay, she says. And then: Does it matter what kind of metal they are made out of?

Aluminum works very well, usually, I tell her.

Okay, thanks!!!!! comes the reply.

She comes down the escalator not too long after, with a large bag and a pleased expression. I’m done, she says.

Then she adds, I hope you won’t be able to guess what I got you.

No, I tell her. I won’t even try. I love surprises. Especially when they are happy ones.

Having bought a gift for The Dog, The Child seemed to think she had completed her Christmas shopping, until we got home and she decided that maybe she hadn’t. So, the following weekend, we head out to the Mall, but a “different mall” this time.  Because the other mall has “other things.”

Are you looking for something in particular? I ask.

Yes, she says.

Can you give me a hint what kind of thing you are looking for? Maybe then I can help you find a good store.

I’m looking for a present, she says. I need to look at the other mall.

We head off to the other mall, cell phone charged. This mall is much larger than our usual one, and the crowd is – how shall I say it? – a bit more mixed, and since there’s a bit more crowd, I am reluctant to let The Child go too far from me. She wants to go looking on her own, and that’s okay, but I set boundaries how far she can roam from where I am.

I wander through a tea shop, find a nice pot for my father’s wife. The Child appears and ecstatically holds up a small stone she has found for my father. It’s some sort of zen thing, she says, and the man at the store gave her a good price on it. This all sounds great, and we head off to another part of the mall.

On the way, we pass the Splat Ball stand. We stop and check out the Splat Balls, which, The Child informs me, are awesome.

Splat Balls, in case you are wondering, are gelatinous balls that, when thrown  against a hard surface, flatten completely, and then spring back into their original shape.

They are terribly exciting, and also, they are three for $10. This strikes me as a rather high price for what amounts to hi-tech jell-o wigglers, and I suggest to The Child that we should “think about them.”

I’m thinking, I’ll come back in a bit and get a couple for her Christmas stocking.

She’s attempting to do math in her head, and wondering if she has enough money to get a Splat Ball for each of her friends.

She agrees to come back later. We find another mall section, I mark off the boundaries (“no further than Ann Taylor in that direction … or the flying mini-copter stand in that direction”).

I start to look around in Macy’s, first in accessories, then head upstairs to look at housewares. My phone pings with a panicked text.

Where r u? The Child wants to know. The lady selling splat balls tried to rip me off!!

She adds, I got out of it quickly, though.

Did you keep your money? I ask.

Yes, every last penny, she says.

Over lunch, she tells me what happened: Apparently, on leaving me, The Child headed straight back to the Splat Ball stand, and tried to figure out if she could buy nine balls – one for each of her friends. By the time she was done with the balls and sales tax, this added up to more money than she expected – but not more than the price that was quoted.

But the woman kept trying to sell me more, The Child says.

Every time The Child announced she had the right amount of balls, she says, the Splat Ball lady would try to add on one more, for me. She kept making me try to buy one more. And I didn’t feel right about it so I told her I wanted my money back and I didn’t want any splat balls.

I have to decide if I want to give her the speech about how sometimes stores will give you little gifts with purchase, since it is clear to me that was what the sales lady was trying to do – give The Child one more ball, so she’d have one for herself.

But since it was clear to me that the stand was selling ridiculously overpriced crap to a young child, I opt instead for a different lesson.

I’m glad you listened to your gut, I tell her. Your gut is almost always right.

In the end, my father did not send The Child an envelope full of cash; instead he wired cash up to her via “your local Wal-Mart.” I explained that there was no Wal-Mart near us, but my father insisted otherwise, bolstering his assertion with a link to the address on the Wal-Mart website.

I remained suspicious, but we went there one Saturday, and sure enough there was a Wal-Mart there, with some cash waiting for The Child at the service desk. The Child announces that there is something else I am wrong about – not only is there a Wal-Mart near us, but it’s a wonderful place. She bolsters her assertion by pointing to her newly-filled wallet.

I admit defeat and take her to the Mall. She needs to go shopping without me, she says, and so, after ensuring she has her cell phone and it is charged, I let her loose.

I wander through an electric car dealership and the Apple store and a cooking store, all of them selling things I don’t need or already have or can’t afford, and often all of the above.

I pretend I am not worried about The Child, on her own in the mall.

She texts me: What is the name of your brand of Christmas Village?

I tell her, and hope she is not buying an $80 collectible houses that you can get on ebay for $10 plus shipping.

She says Thanks! and not long after, texts again to ask if I am hungry yet.

Yes, I could die of starvation at any moment, I tell her.

Where are you? I’ll come find you! she says.

I tell her, the shoe store.

And I wait.

And wait.

Fifteen minutes, then twenty. Then a panicked text: I am lost.

I find out where she is and tell her to stay there. A minute later, I find her, and catch just the tiniest glimpse of fear before she spots me and lights up.

Do you want to see what I bought? she says. I can’t wait to show you!

I want to be surprised by my gifts, I tell her.

Oh, she says. It’s not for you. It’s for The Dog!

She shows me a sack of dog-biscuit mix decorated with a little bone-shaped cookie cutter. She’s beaming.

We’ll make them for him on Christmas, I tell her.