Think

One of the scariest things about parenting, we always say, is the fact you can devote your entire self to raising your kid and there is no guarantee they will be okay.  I stay home with my child, read to her, teach her things, try to fill the little sponge of a brain she has with knowledge, if you will, and hope and pray that all this will mean she will be a productive member of society.  I mean, I am crazy, I have issues but overall, when I go to sleep at night, I know I am a good person; I want the same for my kid.  I want her to be successful, kind, know she is loved and find things in life that make her happy.  Nobody hopes for their kid to be a drug dealer, a stripper or a criminal.  And, while I am not perfect, I want Bird to look up some day and know we did the best we could for her, always looking out for her interests.  Realistically, she will probably have hour-long conversations with friends discussing the ways in which her mother drives her nuts and is, indeed, CRAZY. 

One of the seriously neglected traits in humanity is the ability to possess common sense.  Daily, I see examples of this.  Bread and I are constantly telling Bird to have common sense.  We tell her to think about her actions.  Usually, we are telling her this because of some nonsensical act being performed by some common-sense-lacking person (stupid moron, really).  Something that automatically comes to mind is teenagers, smoking to be cool.  Dude, there is nothing cool about this.  It is the age of health and fitness.  Take that cancer stick out of your mouth.  You look like an idiot.  And pull your pants up while you’re at it!

I frequently see people rollerblading while holding a dog’s leash.  I apologize if you are, indeed, a person who does this.  What are you thinking?  What happens when the dog sees a squirrel and takes off?  I’ll tell you what happens: you take off like a rocket and fall on your face.  You only get one face.  People won’t want to befriend you if your countenance is all fucked up because you were HOLDING YOUR DOG’S LEASH WHEN HE TOOK OFF AFTER A SQUIRREL. Try explaining that at a job interview.  Even the best-behaved dog wants some HSA (Hot Squirrel Action). Your face is your best advertisement.  Nothing says I am a dumbass more than a frontage full of road rash.  Don’t be stupid. 

This is just our “thing.”  Can you teach common sense?  I hope so.  Think child!  Think!  Think about yourself!  Think about others!  Think about what is behind you!  Use your brain!  The biggest thing regarding stupid people is their ability to foresee how their actions impact others.  Because we are all so self-important, we only think of ourselves.  Profound.  Maybe someday I’ll write about jerks who smoke at gas stations.  I could write an entire post on this subject.  Blow yourself up, Asshole.  Leave the innocents out of this. 

This brings me to the other day when we were coming home from the library, on a FIVE-lane road. I am driving approximately 40 miles per hour.  I look over and see a man riding on a Rascal.  For those of you residing in a cave, that is essentially, a motorized wheelchair.  He is crossing the first two lanes of traffic going north.  I am heading south.  I think to myself, he is going to cross the first two lanes and then stop in the turn lane because there is no way he is going to cross in front of me.  False!  I am traveling, at a decent rate of speed, in a motor vehicle.  I am bigger (my car, but hell, probably my ass too).  I will win.  If I fail to stop you will be a smattering on the road.  And do you know what he did when I slammed on the brakes as well as my horn?  He waved.  Waved!  It was a happy thank you type of gesture.  I wasn’t stopping to let you go by!  You were not even in a crosswalk!  You deserved to get hit!  Survival of the Fittest!  I stopped my car because I did not want to deal with the hullabaloo of paperwork and statements that would have been involved in me running your ignorant ass over!  I wanted to get home; it was near dinnertime!  I needed a feeding!  And, so I stopped.  Bird wanted an explanation as to what was happening.  I told her, pointing at Wheelchair Jackass, “That man rode out in front of our car on his motor scooter.”  Her response was, “That was dumb.”  Even my four-year-old gets it.  You don’t.  Humanity fails once again.  But, the important lesson, here?  I think what we are doing might be working.  Yes!

Truth Serum

I don’t believe in lying to my child. I pretty much stick with honesty as the best policy. Yes, the shots will hurt. It is possible you may cry. That is your vagina. It is not a hoo-ha, thingy, whatnot, or even your privates. You have a vagina and you have elbows. I fear it’s a dangerous downward spiral because where do you stop? Some day she will figure out if I am lying to her and I don’t want that someday to come without me noticing. It would be horrible for me to have my daughter think I am a liar.

Before you think me some over –truth-telling weirdo, what I am talking about here is not little white lies. To what I am referring is the “big” stuff. I am not sure how I know what’s big and what is little. I just do, okay?

This past Wednesday, the day before Thanksgiving, was a trying one for me. I had a cold coming on, a bratty child, too much housekeeping to do as we had plans at our home for Saturday night and two dogs running about who were desperately in need of some exercise. By the time we sat down for dinner, I was spent. Bread wanted coffee with dinner so as he could get a decent caffeine buzz and be able to stay up past nine. He is such a sissy. I mean, he had only been up since four in the morning. Geez.

Every meal we eat, and I mean every, I have to answer the following questions from my child: What are we having for dinner? Did I have that before? When did I have it? Did I eat it or did I spit it out? What is it? Who was here when we ate that? This is because we allow her to choose what she eats for breakfast and lunch, within reason. It has to be somewhat healthy and must be accompanied by a fruit or vegetable. Dinner is a different story. This is what we have. You must try it. End of story.

Okay, so Wednesday night was pizza. Bird knows she loves pizza so there weren’t any questions. But, what she wanted to know about was Thanksgiving dinner. The battle had already begun. Next, she wanted some kid coffee. After about four times of her asking, I grabbed the pot and pretended to pour it in her milk glass. That was met with chants of, “You didn’t even pour anything in there! This is not kid coffee. You didn’t add it! It’s just milk.”

Now, patience is not my strong suit. I don’t have much of it and I try. Sometimes deep breathing will help me but not when I am hungry, cold tired, and ready for some elastic pants and a horizontal position in front of the television. So, I informed her I never put anything in her kid coffee, I always pretend or maybe give her some chocolate milk. I asked her to move on and please eat her dinner (at least I was polite). Bread said nothing. He didn’t even make eye contact. I looked at him. I dared him. I also dare him, on a fairly regular basis to try stay-at-home parenthood. He has, thus far, failed to take me up on that offer.

Later, when I was in a better mood, he informed me, during my rant about the coffee he was expecting me to shout, “AND, Santa isn’t real either.” I laughed about this. I mean, I wouldn’t do that. I’m not that cruel. Give me a break.

This brings us to last night. We were on our way home from IKEA. If you’ve ever been there on a weekend, you know what this is like. We were tired from the long holiday weekend and ready to be done. But, our trip was with purpose. We needed parts for the big-girl bed we were assembling for Bird. Knowing we had to go home and finish that was daunting. Bird was in a mood. So was Bird’s mom. That’s me if you aren’t that quick. Bird sees Chuck E. Cheese which she is obsessed with because they play stupid commercials during the shows she watches. They make the place look fun, cool and highly sanitary. I beg to differ. I am a germaphobe. That shit is nasty. I guarantee it. The ball pit is nothing but a feces-infested cesspool.

Bird shouts, “I see Chuck E. Cheese! I see it! Can we go there?”

I responded with, “No! No!”

She continues, “But why not? Why can’t we go there? Can we go another day?”

Me: “Not today, not tomorrow, never.” We are never going there. It is filthy and disgusting. You will catch a disease.”

Bread interjects with, “You will never go to Chuck E. Cheese. Kid coffee is nothing but stuff you always drink and S-A-N-T-A isn’t real.”

Bread's statement was followed by uncontrollable laughter from me. Holy shit. I am fucking crazy.

Joe

My child has an imaginary friend. Now, before you go all therapist on me, stating she only has said “friend” because she is, thus far, an only child and she is creating a sibling for herself, I will tell you to shut it. I had two brothers and an imaginary friend named Bobby who lived in my mouth. I distinctly remember sitting on the floor by the heat register talking to him. So, even having two siblings I did not choose, I wanted something else. Point being, we don’t get to pick and even if we could, it doesn’t always work out the way we want. If we are going to psycho-analyze this shit, I clearly wanted different brothers. I wanted siblings who were normal and did not pull the head off my Barbie. Nothing weird here, move along, people, move along.

So, Bird’s buddy, Joe is constantly a subject in our home. I haven’t squashed her imagination by telling her that he doesn’t actually exist. She is happy. She likes him. They play nicely together. Sometimes they run around the living room together. Besides, I know full-blown adults with more troublesome delusions than a faux friend and nobody is telling them the “truth.” If they can carry on, so can Bird. I am not going to ruin this one for her.

We never know when Joe is around or not. He leaves. He comes back. He goes to work! I like this! She is befriending functional members of society! He used to work at Walmart. Now, he works at Nino’s (a local higher-end grocery store). One could say Joe is moving up in the world, climbing the career ladder, if you will. He probably makes way more money at Nino’s. Actually, that’s not true because it turns out he does not get paid in cash. Rather, they pay him it meat. Of course! Work for eight hours, take home tenderloin! Genius. I wonder if he sells his meat on the black market?

What else have we learned about Joe? He has a ponytail. I don’t like this. I am frowning on her befriending boys with long hair. This style is out. I hope he’s not a delinquent. If he has tattoos and piercings we are out. OMG. What if he trades the meat for drugs?

But seriously, where in the hell did this come from? Last weekend, Bird was with my mom. She said something my mom couldn’t make out. When questioned as to what she said, her response was, “I wasn’t talking to you, I was talking to Joe.” Oh! Of course you are! Excuse the bleep out of me.

A Tale of Two Pair of Boots and Some Old Lady Shoes

It has been raining here a lot this fall.  I take my child to school and come home cursing the people who make jeans. Why are they so bleeping long? I am five foot six inches tall. I am not a short person. I am, in fact, average. Why is it so difficult to purchase a pair of jeans in a reasonable length? Is that too much to ask? Apparently.

My solution was to order some super-cute rain boots from Target. I needed them. I wanted to wage war on wet jeans. And, yes, I know I could have them hemmed or hem them myself. Who does that? I guarantee I would be walking around with some jankity ass shit. Instead I walk around in soaking wet jeans. Pick your poison my friends, all in the name of fashion. I am so stylish, a regular fashion icon, I am. If by style you mean too long jeans and Converse sneakers, a touch of makeup and crazy-ass hair. If yes, then, we are probably soul mates.

So on Sunday, I devoted a stretch of time, while enjoying my morning coffee, made especially for me, by Bread, complete with hazelnut cream frothed by the glorious IKEA milk frother. What? Jealous? Your husband doesn’t make you coffee on Sunday, sorry. Mine does because he effing rocks. Nah, Nah, Nah. My husband is better than yours!

I just really wanted to paint the picture of me, my coffee and the Internet machine. I am moving on here. So, I scoured Target for probably several hours. This is after my trip to Target on Friday and before my trip, that very day, with a friend. Ahem. I am not an addict. I just appreciate a good deal. And, I like to shop. And, I ran out of dry shampoo. Hell hath no fury like a woman with greasy roots.

There were so many choices to be made regarding the print of the boot. I mean, as things are going I will be wearing them every day! It will never stop raining. I will be trapped in my home with the animals unless I build an ark! Yes! Yes! I need tools and supplies! I know what I will be researching this Sunday morning! Target for supplies and Google for a blueprint! And then Google again for someone who can, indeed, read a blueprint…Never mind, it turns out Bread can read a blueprint.

I finally settled on this pair. Bread said no more plaid but I totally wanted these. The bastard shot me down. But, then I was distracted by this pair listed somewhere on the page as something else I might like! Oh! I do! I do! Low and behold I have been searching far and wide for a good knock-off pair of Frye boots. I cannot spend that kind of money on a lone pair of shoes. I would probably wear the shit out of them and get my money’s worth but I just couldn’t do it. I want my child to go to college some day and so does she, actually. When quizzed about what she will be studying while attending college, my child responds with either, “I will learn how to be a princess,” or “mermaid.” Ha! Sister, you need no degree to be a princess. What you need is a damn sugar daddy! I have so much to teach her.

So, Bread, as he always does, convinced me to purchase both pair! Free shipping on orders over $50 and the rain boots were only $20! God bless that man. Did I mention he stopped at MAC to purchase me some of my favorite lip gloss one day after work? Yes, he totally did because I tried to buy it at Macy’s on Sunday and they were out. I have been out for a year but reluctant to purchase more because of the price. Maybelline is only like $3 if you have a coupon! Finally, after going a through a million that just weren’t up to par, I decided to bite the bullet and buy the real thing. I deserve it! I clip coupons! They were out. I figured that was a message from the gods telling me not to spend money on that shit. Bread said he knew it was because he was supposed to get it for me as a token of his affection. It worked. I melted. I mean, the color is fabulous. It’s like someone looked at my lips, said, I shall make this color for you and did. I swear. Get some. My husband bought me lip gloss on a whim! Nah, nah, nah.

So, I have been anxiously awaiting the arrival of said boots. I have been stalking the Internet for their arrival date. Yesterday, I had a million errands to run. One of them was to go to the Croc store and buy some of their hideously ugly and unstylish shoes to wear inside for slippers (I apologize if you do, indeed, wear Crocs). We have zero carpeting in our home. I am constantly freezing in the winter. Our kitchen floor is ceramic. It’s cold and it’s hard (ha, ha, that’s what she said). If I just wear slippers I get sore if I’m in there all day cooking and cleaning and doing whatever the hell it is I do. My legs hurt. I am elderly. I probably have liver spots just dying to come to the surface or something. Bread (again, my husband, the genius, kind, wonderful person that he is) suggested I get some Crocs. After a couple days with throbbing knees and shin splints, I decided yesterday was the day.

I felt like such a loser for having to buy them. I was cursing myself all the way home. By the way, have I mentioned my self-loathing is at an all-time high? I mean, who really cares? But for some reason it really bothered me to have to make this purchase. I want to spend my money on cool things like boots and college and shiny lip gloss. Buying Crocs in order to protect my aging bones, in my eyes, is just slightly above purchasing support hose (again, I apologize if you rock, because I am sure you do rock, the support hose).

Upon my arrival home, I show off my purchase to Bread who proclaims how cool those Crocs are. He is a liar but I love him for it. He even tried them on in order to profess their level of comfort. He then informs me I have a package from Target. Wait. Question: why is receiving a shipment, you ordered and paid for so exciting? You know it is coming. You know what is inside. You paid somebody’s hard earned money for it. Why? Anyway, my package arrived and holy mother of you-know-who! I love those boots! They look expensive; what a fabulous knock-off! This may be the best $35 I ever spent! I am a genius! I need to give myself more credit! I am not some frumpy mother with pink, faux-fur lined plastic shoes! Gump! I am a God-damned genius! I sent pictures to some stylish friends for approval. I won. Score one for Jessie Domestic.

And the moral of the story is: does anyone really care about your boots? No. Did you have fun writing about them? Yes. Score two for Jessie Domestic.

Be Afraid

A couple weeks ago, some friends were in town from California (Yo, Colemans!). A bunch of us got together for dinner, drinks and, alcohol-induced, deep conversation. Because that’s what you do when you have had a few cocktails. You become the smartest, most profound person you know. You also become very self-confident and you start to think yourself to be very lovely, which, normally you do not necessarily believe. You know you have had far too many cocktails when you become a good dancer as dancing is not something you have ever excelled at. You blame your mom for this because she did not sign you up for dance class when you were a tot. Cocktails are seriously the world’s problem solver. I believe congress could make some great decisions if everybody just threw back a couple beforehand. Wars would be ended over a glass of ale, seriously.

Anyway, so my dear friends convinced me I need to blog again. So, I shall try it because once upon a time, liquor made me say I would. I like to keep my word. I also appreciate the kind words and positive reinforcement. Consider yourself warned-I’ll be back (insert Arnold’s voice here but only his voice before he become a philandering arse because now he’s just yucky).

Random Acts

We woke on Easter morning to discover the Mississippi River flowing through our basement. I joke. It wasn’t really the Mississippi. It was more like a murky, disease-infested creek. What a mess! It was Easter! Hath God no sympathy? No! No! He doesn’t! I believe he is punishing me for my lifetime of wrong-doing. I so should have been a nicer person. Karma: It’s a total bitch.


While I don’t fully believe God is punishing me, I am starting to question some things. First, this was totally my fault. I jinxed us. Things are going well (were), financially and life is good. I SHOULD NOT HAVE OPENED MY MOUTH. I should know better. If you speak of it, the shit will hit the fan. Literally.

Second, I realize and fully recognize there are way worse things than a flood in one’s basement. I am glad it was not worse. People are dying. There is disease, poverty, war and a million other horrible things happening in our world. I am thankful for all that I have. So, before you bethink me an awful person, let me just clarify that.

But, nobody wants to wake up to a flood, especially, on a holiday. We have a child! She had a basket to find! We made cinnamon buns from scratch the night before! We just had to bake them for 30 minutes and have a wonderful, sugar-filled morning breakfast which would pair fabulously with super-strong coffee. You want to know what those cinnamon buns tasted like post flood discovery? They tasted like bitter resentment. Screw you, house! Why do you have to do this to us now and ruin our holiday? Christ rose! You didn’t have to do this! At least not today!

I thought maybe the buns would make us feel better. False. We sat around, eating them, pondering what the hell we should do with the mess in our basement. We wanted to know what it was. We wondered what could have caused it. Bread said he suspected our water heater had given out. He mentioned, about a month ago, we needed a new one. This would have been awesome scenario as it would have been clean water. As I mentioned before, in our home, you can’t speak of something without making it fall apart. Last month, Bread said, “Oh! Our Lazy Susan is cracked. Be careful! I will have to fix it.” I shit you not, that night, as I was reading in bed at one in the morning there was a great crash from downstairs. I feared we were being burgled! No! It turns out Suze fell apart and our herbs, spices, oils and various other pounds of cooking miscellanea decided that was the time to fall. It scared the hell out of both of us. Bread was prancing about our home in just his underwear; it was something straight out of a sitcom.

Once he headed to the basement to handle the flood, it took Bread all of maybe five minutes to deduce it was not our water heater causing the flood. It was, in fact, a drain backup. Now, while there were no turds visible, there was really no way to deduce whether the stuff in our basement was clean or dirty water. My germophobia was on high-alert. Remove all shoes! Do not touch anything! Wash! Wash! Wash!

Eventually, the plumber showed up and declared it was, indeed, clean water. God bless Jesus! I could not handle actual human waste in my home anywhere outside of say, the toilet or perhaps my child’s pants. And, maybe sometimes Bread’s pants! But, I’m not in charge of that when it happens! Ha!

Okay, so the plumber told us it was clean water. Ground water is actually what he called it. We were able to carry on with our day. My mom came to pick up Bird earlier in the day so as she could still have a nice holiday. I went to pick her up while Bread began the clean up. The poor guy spent his entire Easter Sunday trying to clean up the disaster. He has been working 70 hour work weeks. This was his first full weekend off in probably a month. I felt bad. Did I mention how much my husband rocks?

After Bird was tucked in and coming off her chocolate- bunny- induced- sugar- high, I went to help Bread. I wasn’t too grossed out since the plumber informed us of the water being clean and all. And, why should my husband have to deal with that all on his own. Eventually, we called it a day, showered and went to bed hoping for a better day tomorrow. Meaning: the insurance people will be in and they can give us the okay to call folks to fix this.

We were deluded for believing the insurance people would help in any way, shape or form. After several phone calls, a meeting with an adjuster and lots of nasty words, we now know if they are not covering anything. I suppose this was just one of life’s lessons. We now have a new insurance provider, in case you were wondering about that.

We had to take matters into our own hands. We called a restoration company. They, in turn, informed us the water was not actually clean. It’s what they call “grey water.” This means, while it was not actually raw sewage, it was, by no means, clean because it has been in contact with actual raw sewage. Vomit. Barf. Oh, my God, why didn’t I wear a hazmat suit?

Upon reflecting on this, I gather when one’s occupation is a plumber, you probably see some nasty shit (pun intended). So, when you walk into someone’s home, it doesn’t smell and there are no actual floating logs, you probably do consider it clean. We, on the other hand, have a different standard. I am not, and never plan to be, used to this. I need to give kudos to all the plumbers out there. You rock and are, most certainly, underpaid. For the record, our plumber rocked. He was great and only charged us $250! It was Easter!

So, the restoration company recommended we replace the carpeting and pad in our basement. It did not take much arm twisting for this germ- obsessed person to agree to that. They said we could clean the carpet if we really wanted to. I do not. I have no sentimental attachment to this. Burn it. We ordered new carpet. Everything has been cleaned and sanitized. We will live. We decided that. We will try to make cinnamon buns again. Everything will be okay.

Bread declared over dinner last night that we’ve had our fair share of acts of God this year. He reminded me of the recent shit storms provided especially for me by my child. He said the Great Basement Flood of 2011 would obviously count as such. He seems to think that next it will be a locust invasion or, perhaps, bed bugs. Bed bugs! Are you crazy! You don’t talk about bed bugs! If we get bed bugs I’m moving out! Curse you! Did he not get the memo regarding our luck? We’re screwed.

Shit Storm

My child has been potty trained for over a year now. We still remind her quite often to go because she has an occasional accident. But, she is a three-year-old wishing for independence, therefore, reminding her to go usually leads to a battle. I have been trying to give her more bathroom freedom because I do feel like she gets it. It’s all about the give and take, you know?

Lately, I am obsessed with Trader Joes. I tried it before on several occasions and did not really love it enough to make a special trip there weekly or even monthly. I already frequent three other grocery stores. I figured that was enough. Then, we received one of their fabulous sales papers and I decided I wanted to try it again. I am hooked. While I’m not Costco-obsessed with TJ’s, I am undoubtedly having a major love affair with them. They have so many great, healthy, inexpensive things! They did not pay me to say this. In fact, nobody is paying me to say anything. Weird. In fact, one might say, there are probably people who would pay me to shut up.

Last week, we were out of Sunflower Seed Butter. In our home, this is a crisis. I planned a trip with the tot. I consider it to be an outing because it involves parking in a parking garage and it is in the next town over. I don’t know why the parking garage complicates it. It just does. It also takes forever to get there. I checked it out and it’s only five miles but it feels like forever. Perhaps I need to seek an alternate route. Perhaps I need to find something else to obsess about.

Anyhow, we went. Bird loves it. She found one of those little carts for kids. She was happy as can be. We made it through the produce, coffee and cracker section. We were debating some raisin bagels. She started to do a little dance. I couldn’t tell if it was a potty dance or just a this-music-really-moves-me thing. I questioned if she needed to use the facilities. She said no. Oh! And here we go. This is the part where you figure out I am, indeed, about to write about my child and her frail, inexperienced bladder. I say, no, not her bladder this time, her bowels! I really pulled one over on you. It’s funny to me! So many things are funny to me about child rearing. So so so so so many things. Some people may disagree. These people may go as far as to say raising children is a very serious matter. I, on the other hand, think it’s funny. Yes, it is serious too but, my child will still be okay even if I write about her accidents on the internet. Believe me, there are a thousand different ways in which I am 100 percent certain I can screw up my kid. Besides, I need material so I can embarrass her in front of her prom date.

Essentially, about four seconds after she refuses my offer to take her to the bathroom, her entire face goes green and she says, “I need to go potty.” I tell myself not to panic, push my cart out of the way and grab her. She says, “I already went a little bit.” I tell her it’s no big deal and we search for the bathroom. Naturally, the bathrooms are located exactly behind where we were except, in my panic, I didn’t think to look behind me. So, I made my kid walk an entire lap around the store with a load of shit in her pants. And, that was just how she was walking-as if she had a load of shit in her pants. Her legs were about three feet apart.

We make it to the restroom. At this point, I deduce it’s more than a little bit. It’s a mass. Luckily she is wearing a skirt and leggings. After she informs me she doesn’t need to go on the potty, as she is done, I decide to try and clean her up. Because even if we can’t finish shopping, there is no way I am putting her in my brand new car with that going on. No way. I decide the best method is to remove her shoes and throw away the leggings and her underwear. You are welcome Trader Joes for that gift. There was a moment of sheer insanity where I actually considered putting these items in my purse. You know, just tossing them in. I’m very glad I reconsidered, as is the cashier. I use about a half a roll of the paper towel in the bathroom (not very green of me) to wipe her down. Next I use the Sani Hands I keep in my purse (no plastic bag for storing shitty underwear, however) to wipe her off. I suspect, by her shrieks, this may have burned a bit. I was desperate! I was trying to remain calm because, in the words of hamburger eating David Hasselhoff, “This thing is a mess.” Funny, my friends made fun of me at the casino because of the Sani Hands. Had they been present at TJ’s they would have had a much better appreciation for my thoughtfulness.

I deduct she is clean enough. I tell her we are not going to discuss this with anyone. I have visions of her telling people while we are at the store about our little predicament. We are not going to tell anyone that you are not wearing panties. She agrees. I hope she holds up her end of the deal. We finish shopping. I want my effing organic banana yogurt. That stuff is like crack. I am going to need crack after this experience. I drove here, I had a traumatic experience, I survived and I want my goods. We find one of our carts. The other one seems to have disappeared since we were in the bathroom for well over 20 minutes. I’m fine with that. I retrace my steps, hopefully grabbing whatever I had in the cart before and moving as quickly as I can. My child needs a bath and I am praying to God this does not happen again because there is obviously nothing to contain it. I swear to you, people were looking at us funny. I swear they knew. I am sweating profusely and I can’t wait to leave.

Alas, we are in the car. I am driving quickly. Bird is tucked neatly into her seat with her skirt wrapped around her. I can’t have any feces touching my vehicle. I am trying to contain it. I am traumatized. I am frazzled. Feces in public has that effect on me. I am not a calm person. I stop behind bus and a line of cars. The light changes about three times but we never move. Why is the man behind me honking? There is nothing I can do! I am waiting for the traffic in front of me to move! He continues to honk. Oh! Wait! This is actually a line of parked cars! I am a moron! I am frazzled! I roll down the window and yell to the man, “My child shit her pants in the grocery store! I’m spent!” I am kidding. I didn’t actually yell to him. I wanted to. But, in my defense, there was a bus! I thought we were waiting for the bus.

We arrive home. I ask her, as she’s disrobing for the bath, “What happened at Trader Joes?” She informs me, “We can’t talk about it.” Well, at least she kept up her end of the bargain. At least it’s over. That is, until the next day when she does the exact same thing at school and her teacher hands me her underwear wrapped in a plastic bag. I thought it was an art project! Wrong. When I asked her what happened at school she tells me, “I snarkled.” Oh! Is that what the kids are calling it these days?