The grocery shopping trip from you-know-where. (image from http://wildelori.blogspot.com/)
I just got home from grocery shopping (and Sam’s and Target and Walgreens). Oh, I can hear you now. “Well, woop-di-freakin-do! Big deal!” Well, let me assure you it is a big deal. Why? For starters, it’s 11:30 at night (even though you’ll probably be reading this during your first or second cup of coffee in the morning). But aside from my late-night arrival at home, let me back up a bit and let you know what transpired during that shopping trip (and afterwards). I just can’t make this stuff up.
My evening started out fabulously. My husband put the oldest to bed so I could jet off to town (40 some minutes away) to do some much-needed errand running and grocery shopping. Yes, I could have …
Stroll me right to the psychiatrist’s office. I need medication.
(image from babyjunctionga.com)
I’m passive-aggressive about cleaning, even in my car. I’m all casual and “go with the flow” until something drives me over the edge. Today, I was driven over the edge. I took the girls outside to play, and decided I’d do something productive. So, I attempted to “throw a little trash away” from my car. Well, once I opened the door, I realized it was worse than I thought. WAY worse. Toys everywhere, clothes everywhere, food everywhere. So much food, in fact, that our kittens kept repeatedly jumping into the car to grab a snack. “Oh Lord,” I muttered. No, really, I needed the Lord’s help for this one.
Trash was thrown away. Large crumbs were tossed into the yard for the chickens …
Yeah, I know I look rough. But I had to get up in the middle of the night to write this.
Sup? What, you didn’t know I could talk, let alone type? Well, I can. I can do a lot of things. But you wouldn’t know, would you? It’s always “my preschooler this,” and “my older daughter that.” Like the time she danced and people laughed. Woop-di-freakin-do! I could totally take her in a dance off. Anyways, it’s time you know the truth. I’m tired of living in the shadows. Tired of only being the subject of maybe 20% of my mom’s blog posts. That’s right. I exist. Maybe you didn’t even know that. Sure, my mom may have mentioned she has two daughters, but why doesn’t she ever talk about me? It’s always …
She struck this pose when they announced her name. WHERE did she learn that?
After five weeks of not paying much attention in dance class (and no practice at home), my daughter seemed rather nonchalant about her first public performance. We bought the outfit (ouch), styled the hair (not so bad) and skipped the makeup (I’m that mom who just won’t allow that yet). My expectations were low. After all, she’s only three, and if she made it out on stage at all it would be a small miracle. We stood behind the band shell in our hometown park, practicing and preparing to perform for a couple hundred friends and neighbors at our annual Fall Festival. She whined, “I don’t want to dance anymore. I’m tired of it!” Was this really how she felt or …
The following is my external/internal dialogue while riding the tiny Ferris Wheel with my preschooler at our small town carnival.
Why am I smiling? Because it’s over.
Oh look, honey, our car is purple! You like purple.
Ohmygosh, that thing is tiny. I’m going to die in a tiny purple Ferris Wheel car!
Ok, sweetie, we put this seat belt over our laps. It will keep us safe. And this bar will, too.
No. It won’t keep us safe, we’re going to fall out and die!
Here we go. It’s going to be so fun. Are you excited?
I don’t want to go. It’s not fun. I’m terrified!
Whee! Look at all the lights!
Craaaaaap! Look at how flimsy this thing is!
Ok, we have to stop for a little bit up here so other people can get off …
She can let it all go in dance class and she doesn’t give a rip.
And then…she ripped one.
My sweet-faced, curly-haired three-year-old angel let it all go in dance class, literally. And not while the music was blaring. Not while their little bodies were in motion. She waited until prayer circle. When it was quiet. Eerily quiet. Those last few seconds after the instructor asks, “Any last prayer requests?”
Bwooooop!! “Hee-hee-hee I tooted.” Yep. That was my daughter. Our tiny dancer is a big tooter.
The other girls giggled, too young to know (or care), that public flatulence isn’t socially acceptable. A few of the older girls looked at her with what seemed to be…admiration. “Wow, that chick just totally farted and didn’t even care! OMG she laughed about it!” (Or whatever tween girls talk like nowadays.)
And while I have …