Oh my quad.

Sometimes it feels like I don't live for much.

 

What I mean by that is, if it doesn't involve a two- or four-year-old human that once emerged from my nether region, I am likely not a part of it. Sure, I'd love to have a hobby or be a movie enthusiast or go to every new nightclub's grand opening, but, you see, stay-at-home moms have a bit of baggage. Baggage that happens to need their noses and asses wiped at all hours of the day and night. Baggage that can't be brought to movies or bars or parties. That kind of baggage.

So, when I discovered that I could partake in something for myself that came stock with childcare, I was in. I could check in, drop my precious but whiney and ever-thirsty (only for chocolate milk, never for water) baggage at the door and do something for myself and ONLY myself.

As most of you already know, I love working out. Love it. Spin class, especially, because it makes me feel like I'm fulfilling my deepest need at this point of my life, which is to go through the motions of going somewhere really, really fast and far away while actually being completely stationary because, let's be honest, I don't actually have any real desire to go anywhere at all. I'm in the heartabouttoburstwithloveandgratitude/getmethehellllllouttahere phase of my life.

Anyway, I've become quite good at spinning throughout the last year. I was just telling my mom the other day that I was fairly confident I could crack a walnut with my quads, in fact. So, I had that down. And thanks to my fresh new Lulu gear (I can call it lulu now. We're friends.) I was feeling good today. Pastel and matchy-matchy and extra perky, I swing my leg over my bike, take a look at myself in the mirror, and amongst a sea of bikes, notice the reflection of a new spin class go-er in the dark room. She's right behind me. "This is my first class", she actually admits to the instructor. So, because I'm feeling extra cocky today, I decide, in that moment, I would completely show off. I look awesome, after all, I mean, my freaking headband matches my outfit. So do my socks. And fingernails. This is my moment to get someone to think I'm cool and great, and maybe, with some persistence, I'll even push her to feel a little bad about her inability to keep up. I realize the immense assholeness of this inner declaration while it's unravelling in my mind, but I go with it anyway. Because before I know it, I think, I will be home again and scrubbing my indigestion-prone dog's vomit off the couch for the fourth time this week. This is as close to feeling noticed as its gonna get. I feel like I deserve the boost.

Off we go. I'm spinning like a maniac. I can see my nutshell-destroying thighs tense and swell and shimmer with sweat as my legs fly. The newbie behind me is struggling, sitting down and taking her time, but not at all phased by my Hulk-smash strength. She's smiling, in fact, seeming grateful just to be a part of the class as I'm pulling every trick I've got to get some attention. But, as luck would have it,  I'm being completely overlooked.

I'm kinda ticked and sweating profusely and my chest is heaving up and down. I'm killing myself for the hope of a desperate ego boost at someone else's expense. And that's when I notice it. I wipe my brow with a towel, glance at the mirror, and notice, in the reflection, the newbie's leg behind me is shimmering too. Good god, she has a freaking prosthetic leg. Holy fucking shit, I'm the biggest douche bag who has ever lived. I just spent twenty minutes insanely competing against a handicapped woman who surely could teach me a thing or two about self confidence. What a courageous lady.

It seems fitting that during the daily time that I deem my most selfishly deserved, is the exact hour I am taught a lesson that happens to really be the most important lesson I could teach my children. "You're not better than anyone, even while wearing Lululemon." Maybe a more important lesson for my daughter rather than my son, but now that I think of it, they do have a pretty impressive men's line...

 

Anyway, I'm pretty mad at myself. Needless to say, the next time I need walnuts I'm buying them already shelled. Because, god forbid, the nutcracker goes missing and my panties and bra happen to match.

Lululemonday

My husband is a smart man. Very smart. His mind works quickly and sharply. He can fix just about anything, he's creative, insanely talented, and he can make me laugh in a millisecond. My god, you should have seen his gay German airline attendant impersonation yesterday... Let's just say my post-baby bladder did not react kindly.

So, when he told me, for Mother's Day, to go to Lululemon and buy myself whatever I "needed", I was temporarily blinded by his blaring stupidity. So much so that I had to make sure I had correctly heard his proposal. I checked, then re-checked, then wiggled my index finger into an ear drum to loosen what surely was blocked by a pound of earwax, then checked again. And sure enough, there I was, given a free pass to make several deposits into a very, very dangerous account.

Dangerous, I say, because I am completely ruined to regular workout clothes now. I want absolutely nothing to do with them. You should know, I had only previously coveted the over-priced gym duds from afar, standing in line for spin class and jealously scowling at all the brightly clothed women who emulated a flock of exotic birds while I impersonated a sad, dull, gray pigeon, thinking, "Someday... Someday."

 

So, when I slid the first pair of obnoxiously hot pink pants up over my calves, thighs, then rear, then watched doves appear and fly out of my fitting room as trumpets sounded, I knew I was destroyed. Blinking in disbelief, I stood there, ran my fingers over what felt like a second layer of skin, fell madly in love, and instantly knew Troy had made a HUGE mistake. I spent over four hundred dollars on five, just five, items of delicious, glorious, living, breathing clothing and have been battling the pounding urge to get in my car and head straight back since. This morning, it took everything in my power not to respond to the kind, 'hello-how-was-your-weekend's' from fellow gym-goers with a "LULULEMON!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I'M A FREAKING PEACOCK!"

 

I drank the Kool-Aid and I can't fucking wait to burn off the calories in these magnificent florescent pants.

Mother's Day and some highlights

Here we are again. Mother's Day!

 

The day that leads me to believe that I most definitely deserve a present or a touching card or a Madison Square Garden-sized standing ovation for another year's worth of mom-related selflessness, but upon further thought, realize that if I were selfless enough to deserve that recognition (in the form of Lululemon workout gear? Just pants? Possibly? Please?), I wouldn't expect anything at all. Being a mother would be fulfilling enough. And it is. Truly. I'll absolutely take some over-priced gym clothes any day of the year, so no pressure on that.

 

So for this particular Mother's Day, I've decided to highlight ten of my favorite blog posts. Anndddd thanks to being featured on Time Magazine's website as an Instragram "Mother to Follow" (I know... cray), I've had a surge of viewers and would like to offer up a few of my best, most terrifying, and most telling stay-at-home mom stories. I hope that my horror/humor stories will bring a smile to your face or, at the very least, remind you to take your birth control in a timely fashion.

And in no particular order:

1. Balls The day a bouncy ball ruined my life and my husband got kicked in the nuts so hard he thought he was going to die.

2. Just the mountains and me The night my family spent an entire night covered in blood and vomit.

3. I love birth control. That one time I attempted to bring my two-year-old and a newborn to my gynecologist appointment.

4. There's a nap for that  A post about how I am completely powerless to passing up a good nap.

5. Marriage is like a banana The story of how I decided my husband's and my "love banana" had become, um, limp.

6. Taco Pie Crapola When one of my favorite childhood dinners was ruined forever.

7. Target A post that might bring some light as to why 97% of moms cry in their cars in a post-Target shopping trip.

8. My Toddler, The Racist One of my first blogs about my, then, toddler who was having issues with her black baby doll.

9. Domestic Violence An explanation of why I refer to my four-year-old as my "abusive boyfriend".

10. Dance Class Just another day at Avery's "Real Housewives-ish" dance class.

Happy Mother's Day.


 



insect-urities

I've noticed something about the flow of life as a mother.

Motherhood comes steeped in insecurities.  More than I could have ever anticipated. And it seems that those insecurities are always exposed at the most sensitive of times, or in moments when I am just beginning to feel a rare glimmer of confidence. Riiiight when I begin to feel good and comfortable is the exact time I should have braced myself for a mortifying moment to completely blindside me.

 

Like, for instance, two years ago, in an interview with Avery's preschool's owner, I requested my daughter be admitted early as a two-year-old because she had been potty trained obnoxiously early and was soOoOoo advanced. It was on that day, in that interview, Avery shit her pants for the first time ever. I politely asked if we may use their toilet, calmly walked to the bathroom, then frantically scrubbed her little panties in her school's cute li'l sink where I then shoved the soiled underwear in my pocket for the rest of the interview so her teacher wouldn't know.

 

It's all those times your toddler perfectly recites her alphabet at home, until you ask her to do it in front of people you're trying to impress, and she pretends like she's never heard the English language before. Then some asshole makes a comment about some "kids developing slower than others", and that's when you consider taking up a life of crime instead of a life of mommyhood.

Or it's when your darling two-year-old fiiiinally starts talking. You want to shout his new achievement from the rooftops. "Everyone! I told you he'd do it! He speaks!" The little guy loves trucks. Unfortunately for the proud mommy, he happens to pronounce "truck" as "cock". Clear as day. Constantly it's, "blue cock" "huuuuuuge cock" "daddy's cock" "awww wittle baby cock". We're working on it.

 

For me, this time, it was cleanliness-related. While I'm not the cleanest cleanest person on the planet, it can be noted that unmade beds and dirty dishes give me anxiety. I'm a bit obsessive about my kids' hygiene and have been known to pin down my children and wipe their faces. Sometimes they'll cry from the weight of their mother's insane body holding them down until I scoop out every last trace of a booger from their dirty little noses. It's happened. Maybe I took a razor blade to the crevices of our refrigerator last month and it was absolutely exhilarating. Let's just say, if you called me a perfectionist, I wouldn't call you a liar.  I've come a long way from my cocktailing days where I would sometimes touch up last night's leftover smudged clubbing eyeliner for work the next day. What? Don't judge me I was drunk.

 

So, what I'm trying to say is, with a lot of hard work and re-teaching on my part, we're now a relatively clean family. Cleaner than most, I'd even venture to say. My kids clothes are almost always spotless, their hair is combed and freshly done when we leave the house. I was proud of that.

 

So, when I saw the fucker scurry across my always-bathed daughter's hair while at the beginning of our family weekend in Newport Beach, I didn't believe it at first. But, lo and behold, it was me shouting a panicked, "WE HAVE LICE!!!" at my husband as he returned back from lunch with his Californian best friend. Understandably, it was at that time Brian remembered he suddenly had to immediately return home, and as soon as he left, (which was very quickly) sheer hysteria struck the Beer family. I started pacing back and forth. Avery started to cry. Landon, well, Landon just sat there and continued to be squishy. Troy immediately Googled and found a lice removal company (yes, they exist), whom he called to come ASAP and rid us of the plague that was surely going to destroy and dismember us. Upon waiting for this company to arrive, my whole body started to itch. My mind raced. Were they fire-breathing flesh-eating lice? Probably. I think they're in my eyelashes. Am I going blind? Is that a side effect? Do I have a will? I need a will. How am I going to sign the will? I can't see! I think I'd like to be cremated.

Hours that felt like days passed as we waited for this company. Then. More anxiety. Wait. A "lice removal company?!" Like... mobile? All the neighbors are going to know. Do they come in an ice cream-like truck? Does the lice-cream truck play music? Will they post a condemned note to the front door? "BEWARE: These people are super disgusting." ?! I tried not to move and fought every possible urge to saturate my scalp with kerosene and throw a match to it.

Finally FINALLY she arrives. Two hours late and in a megaphone-less, "you've got lice"-siren-less vehicle, thank god. She comes in, gives us the "lice-prefer-clean-hair-calm-down-psycho-they're-not-going-to-kill-you" shpeal, and then she asks who of us four would like to be inspected and stripped of the ungodly buggies first. And as the matriarch of the family and brave protector of my children, I frantically twitched, itched, then squealed a , "MEEE!!!! For the love of Christ do me first," then sat in the specified chair, where she began to lather my head with insecticides.

"This is it", I think. "Just a few more minutes and I'm free and clear". I'm feeling hopeful, relieved.

Not five minutes into my treatment, the woman's fingers stop massaging. She swallows hard. She whispers, "Can I please have some water? I don't feel well." I complied, and she sipped some water.

She slowly begins again. Two minutes later it's, "I don't know what's going on. I'm so dizzy. Can I use your restroom?"

My head is partially lathered, partially infested at this point. I would give her a kidney, I've decided, for her to finish the job. I show her to the bathroom, where she spends the next twenty minutes flushing the toilet and running the faucet. The woman is seriously ill. She comes out, apologizes profusely, and nauseously digs back into my scalp. Three minutes later she asks for a pretzel because her head is spinning. Two minutes after that she asks if it would be alright to sit in her car for a while. I am thisclose to accompanying her because I'm terrified she's going to leave. Fix meeeee! Another twenty minutes pass as I sit in a chair, helpless, infested, draped with a towel and doused with chemicals, trying not to claw my hair out. It's at that moment I had decided that was the most excruciating hour of my life.

Anyway, she finally, dizzily, finished ridding Avery and me (the boys, come to find out, didn't have them) of each louse and it's horrible, repulsive eggs and she left and probably immediately admitted herself into a hospital because she was clearly dying of some sort of horrible, incurable disease. She likely got rid of our lice and gave each of us smallpox or the Spanish flu.

So, since then, whenever we have been around children I creepily sift through their hair when their unsuspecting mommies aren't looking because I have NO idea how we became infected. It was bizarre. I called Avery's school to ask and the only thing her teacher could respond with was, "Ew. Gross." So, that's where I'm at with getting to the bottom of that.

Either way, we didn't tell anyone because we didn't want our friends to be repulsed by us, but there ya go. Hi, we had lice. It happened. It's over. I don't know how or from who or where but it happened.

Disgusting, maybe. But be careful about letting this post convince you of your supposed superiority to my little infected family. Before you know it, you could be feeling realllly good about yourself one day. Maybe you even have a babysitter and you're running errands. I bet you have cute heels on too. Maybe even a hat! You're feeling fancy, thinking about how cool you are, then all of a sudden, BAM! you roll your ankle or get a speeding ticket or have explosive diarrhea. Stay on your toes. And, DON'T share your hat with anyone. Just in case.



 

 

I'm a superhero

The stomach flu totally screws with me. Landon has been a barf factory for about twenty-four hours now, and I truly can't tell if I'm actually nauseous from the beginnings of a virus or if I am just mid-dry heave because I'm wiping up mucous-y, sour throw up and it's making my stomach turn.

Hear me out on this one- maybe the stomach flu isn't really contagious at all. Maybe people just get so grossed out that they're just, you know, nauseous and puking by association for a couple days. I mean, the only thing that was running through my head while I was sopping up and disinfecting the goop that was swimming alongside my son's guts just moments earlier, was "I don't feel so good. I just... don't feel so good. Like, at all. Like, my insides feel like a bubbling swamp."

Anyway, I have a new life motto! It's a good one. You ready?

 

"If I don't do it, no one will."

 

Kinda sad at first glance, maybe, but very empowering if you think about it. I'm convinced this is a necessary statement that all procrastination-prone people should be repeating to themselves. Especially moms, who are responsible for all the chores and tasks of the world that are the most mundane and most easily reasonable to put off. For example, "Let's be honest, I don't really HAAAAVE to tidy the playroom. They're gonna take the same stuff out tomorrow...", right? Right. But, after a while, even though I was previously convinced otherwise, the clutter begins to burrow into my brain and I suddenly feel like I'm drowning in a sea of foam blocks while choking on never ending Barbie shoes. Did I think the toys would eventually put themselves away? Or even more foolishly, did I think my kids or husband would do it?! I mean, the absurdity is incomprehensible. So! I tell myself the afore-mentioned statement like forty-seven times a day. It helps me be more proactive in picking up, and laundry, and grocery shopping, because once I come to terms with the reality that I happen to be the only person on the planet who will ever put away whatever "it" happens to be --- or "accidentally" suck "it" up through the vacuum hose (which happens to be my favorite thing to do...), I'm less likely to leave "it" there. I'm less likely to push back hanging up the clothes that have been sitting, folded on the dryer for two days, I'm less likely to put off bath time for one more minute. I imagine it's kinda like when someone has been captured by an evil villain and news gets back to Superman, and he's all, "well shit, if I don't do it no one will," and then, you know, he saves the world. So basically, moms are superheroes, saving the world one prompt unloading of the dishwasher at a time. It's true.

You know what else I've realized? I've realized that, having little ones, I have gotten exceptionally good at doing things one-handed over the last few years. It's like, I can flip a piece of salmon with one hand so expertly, it's hard to refrain from shouting a, "BAM!!!" at that perfectly flipped little fishy as soon as it sizzles on the pan. It would make Emeril beam with culinary pride, surely. With one hand, I can unscrew a sippy cup lid, then open the fridge, then open a bottle of juice, then fill the cup with a perfectly balanced juice/water/ice concoction. I can unwrap and perfectly adhere a bandaid to my kids' skinned knees, you guessed it, all one-handed. It's a sight to be seen. It's just amazing how you relearn to use your body when you are always holding a glass of wine. Oh, you thought it was because I was always holding a child? Aw, that's adorable.

Anyway, my wrist is starting to ache from typing this blog entirely left-handed, because my right hand is super occupied. Because if one of my hands doesn't feed my face with wine, no one will.

hey jealousy

So many emotions are intertwined with being a mother.

 

I definitely expected the feelings of joy and pride and even prepared myself to experience bouts of anger and intense frustration. I thought I had accurately braced myself to dive into an Olympic-sized pool filled with a wide array of emotional turmoil before I had a daughter. But, as with all things mother-related of which I had assumed I had an iota of understanding, I did not. I never in a million years, ever ever ever thought I'd be jealous of my own daughter.

I'm not talking about being jealous of her innocence. I think everyone longs to momentarily trade adult responsibility, judgements, and stress for the simplicities of childhood. I get that.

Nope. It's a much more shallow brand of jealousy. It starts off normally. I'll just be staring and admiring my beautiful little girl, thinking of how lucky and fortunate I am to be in the midst, let alone the mother, of such a darling child, when BAM! out of nowhere, I get snapped with a pang of jealousy. Maybe sometimes, while gazing at her locks in the sunlight, do I wish I was the one who had my daughter's gorgeous golden hair which is naturally laced with rich blonde highlights. It literally looks like angels wove her hair out of sun and strands of heaven . Maybe I've thought about having her long sweeping eyelashes that curl up toward her eyebrows like she spent the previous night sleeping with her lashes set in miniature sponge rollers. Possibly I've imagined myself being the one with her perfect shelf of a bottom that would insinuate she has spent every waking minute of her four years and four months on this earth doing lunges. I guess I'm sorta envious that she gets to put in zero effort and get infinite beauty in return. I want no cellulite. I want to have boundless energy. I want no wrinkles. I want to be able to turn down French fries. I want I want I want.

It just kind of seems unfair that little kids have all these covet-worthy attributes yet have no concept of what they are working with. Do you know what I would give for someone to stop me in public and tell me how cute I am? It's been so long, I'd probably just immediately grab my wallet and give that kind stranger five dollars. Or a kiss on the mouth. Or how about being threatened, as a punishment for inappropriate behavior, with an earlier bedtime or a nap?! Like, "Bad girl, Sofia, your husband has no clean work socks, you march yourself up to bed RIGHT NOW and take some time to yourself!" Or to be told I HAVE to finish all my dinner? I mean come on. I'll finish my entire dinner, and yours, and that guy's over there if only my thigh size wasn't directly connected to my caloric intake.

Anyway, this painful superficiality is stemming from the physical rut in which I have found myself in recently. I just don't get to groom myself anymore, nor do I have the drive to. My nails are dry, cracked, and unpainted. My hair color is dull and my bangs are so long that they prick my eyeballs. I have had my boring, outdated clothes for so long that I can't stand the look of them for one more second. On a cold and windy day last week, I so sloppily threw myself together before an outing to the store that Ms. Avery Perfectbutt McPerfectsons glanced at her hot mess of a mother and nonchalantly said, "Ew. You look like a daddy." Because there was no evidence of any femininity, apparently. She wasn't trying to hurt my feelings, she just tells it like it is. Like, for example, when I stopped at the Starbucks drive-thru for some coffee before a daytime play date a couple weeks ago, and Avery flat out goes, "Why are you getting coffee when you are just going to drink beer at Tricia's?" She's. Four. And wrong. I didn't drink beer, I drank vodka SO THERE. OMG, wait a second, I have suddenly become terrified of what Avery must be telling her preschool teachers about me. Oh god.

 

Anyway, when I used to cocktail (because alcohol is a running theme in my life), I would set apart a minimum of ninety minutes to give myself time to get ready for work. That was complete, undivided attention for professional-grade ego massaging. It was relaxing and selfish and awesome. I would tend to each eyelash as if each strand were deserving of love and attention, and would douse an army of hair products and lotions and sprays upon myself. I would make sexy faces in the mirror then smile and wink at myself.  Now things just feel so rushed. I need to track down a babysitter if I want to get my hair or toes done. Forget tanning, my husband would neevvvver go for an expense like that when we live in a place where our only two weather forecasts are literally "sunny" and "sunnier". I have to guiltily plop my kids down in front of the TV to take a shower, so I always hurry and forget to shave an armpit or entire leg. Certainly, my new found sloppiness is definitely related to lack of time and energy, but, you know, on a side note, I also don't need to be overdoing it and showing up to Costco with a fishnets, falsies, and stilettos. No one wants to be THAT mom. I'm just shooting or "publicly acceptable" at this point.

It's pretty bad though. Two days ago, as an afterthought, I decided I would throw on some hairspray (so fancy) to keep my overgrown bangs from escaping their bobby pin confinement, and only after I had sprayed the stuff and it started to foam uncontrollably on top of my scalp had I realized that I had blasted my hairline with a can of glass cleaner.  So I clumsily combed my fingers through my ammonia-soaked strands and just left the house like that- which may have been my stay-at-home-mommy rock bottom. Truly, I didn't even try to wash it out. Maybe I was too tired and rushed. Maybe I wanted it to all work out really well so I could be able to have a pin on Pinterest go viral. "10 secret uses for Windex that will blow your mind! Pin now, read later". My personal life is literally becoming indistiguisable from cleaning products. They're morphing.

Either way, if you happen to see a disheveled mom out in the world tomorrow, go up to her and tell her she's cute. Because she is likely having a miserable, dragging, self-loathing week. You will make her day, maybe even inspire her to vouch for the sitter and take some time for herself, and you might even get five bucks out of it.

 

PS. Thanks to a surpise visit from the flu, my son just threw up on my feet.

 

 

COFFEE!

She starts with, "I took all three of them to the grocery store today and I almost killed one- like murdered."

 

I respond with, "I cried in Target today."

 

Truly, this is a normal conversation between my best friend and I. Absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. I didn't respond to her statement with an, "Oh my god! Tell me more, that sounds awful!," and she didn't respond to me with an, "Oh no. You cried?! Are you ok?"

 

Nope.  Because of it's normalcy, we just continued on, eventually getting to the part about how we are still disturbingly in love with Justin Timberlake, and we marvelled at his ability to get hotter and hotter and freakingggg hotter with age. Meanwhile, I'm considering botox at 27, but you know, apparently all JT needed was a new hairdo. I'll cut Biel, btw. Cut. Biel.

 

I'm getting off track! My point is, holy fucking shit it is impossible to do anything with a two-year-old. My point is, I cry in stores more often than not, and if you happen to see me sitting in my car in a parking lot, I'm most definitely sobbing and cursing under, and more frequently nowadays over, my breath. The kid my dear friend almost murdered is her two-year-old, and the one that made me cry is mine.

 

Here's the rundown- and it's actually how every errand I have embarked upon seems to pan out. In this instance, I literally only need coffee. I can do without the eggs and would even give up the toilet paper before the coffee. I live for the stuff. It is a necessity, plain and simple. My toddler may cause me to cry every time I go to the store, but without my required daily dosage of caffeine, in response to the inevitable tantrum, I'd probably just curl up in the fetal position and lay on the floor of Costco or wherever, while normal-minded patrons just kinda stepped over me. I wouldn't be able to deal. I need it.

 

I enter the store. Landon demands the absolutely biggest cart they have, which possibly may require a boating license to operate. No aisle in Target is equipped to handle this thing. It has a turning radius of a Carnival cruise ship. He climbs aboard and off we go.

 

From then on out, he is screaming- SCREAMING- for everything. He wants "out", he wants a toy, he wants candy, he wants a drink. He wants things he's never wanted before. A magazine?! Come on.. You want a magazine, Landon? You really need to know how to lose ten pounds before summer? That's a third of your body weight, dude.  He's pulling at his straps and arching his back and wailing. So, now I'm in the bathing suit aisle, which I should definitely not be in, but the stress of the situation makes me feel like I deserve a look-see. "Look what I go through everyone! See?! I'm getting a bathing suit because I haven't bought one, in like, forever and I deserve it!" My son's incessant screeching causes me to give up before I could really look at anything, but not before I have seemingly wedged his yacht into one of Target's side-aisles. Now I'm blindly shoving this boat-cart which has an absolutely insane and inconsolable, questionably seizuring toddler into display tables and racks. His little body is flailing back and forth as I ram this huge awful shopping cart into every direction, hoping that we might escape the mess we've gotten ourselves into. Now I'm frustrated and everyone's looking at me, and my eyes are welling with tears while my beloved son continues to blare his humiliate-my-mom alarm without ceasing.

 

Anyway, eventually we wiggled ourselves free, Landon continued to scream bloody murder, and I raced to the coffee, chucked it in my cart, sprinted myself, my son, and my boat to the checkout line while he continued to emulate a mom-hating siren. Approaching the check out line, I noticed that I had grabbed decaf coffee, then I whispered a "fuck. that." to myself, turned around and booked it back to the coffee aisle, son-siren still blaring, where I double then triple checked that there was adequate caffeine in the chosen product. There was. Thank god. On the way to pay, I absent-mindedly grabbed some pajamas and a leotard for my daughter as well. I don't even know how that happened.

 

I made it to the check out line where he continued to throw a fit. Which was weird, because, you know, surrounding a toddler with candy and gum and small toys just out of his little arms' reach is usually really calming. I apologized, the cashier was overwhelmingly annoyed, I apologized again, and as soooooooooooooooooooooon as my foot hit the pavement of the parking lot on the way out, he stopped. Just like that.

 

At that, I loudly announced that I recognized his aversion to allowing me to run errands, and at that, I hurt his feelings and he started crying again.

 

So, I'm an asshole, basically.

 

BUT! I have coffee....

yayyyy