Three flats and a Tasmanian Devil
Shopping with my son is always a circus because my Little Man is never content unless he can climb the walls and skydive off the scaffolding, or blow something up, or worse, eat a piece of regurgitated bubble gum off the floor.
With that said, it is no doubt I was pleased to find a stroller he loves to be confined ride in. Our beloved stroller, which we call Bob, is permanently placed in the back of my car so if there is ever a reason to attempt a little shopping with our Little Man we are prepared for battle.
Today, the universe wanted to teach me a lesson in patients and wickedly decided to hit me below the belt by popping all three of Bob’s tires and not tell me until I already drove all the way out to Target with a car full of kids who were singing: “Hooray we are going to choose a new Wii game and our Mom is the BEST”.
When I pulled Bob out of the car nothing seemed wrong. I watched my son eagerly climb up inside his stroller with his juice and a box of raisins. That is when I realized we had serious problems with Bob’s tires. I stood there for a while, looking at the entrance to Target, then to my two happy girls, then the three flat tires, and then back at the store doors, then to Little Man’s hands grasping his raisins and juice, then back to my car. I looked deep into the back of my car as if a new Bob would magically appear.
As the universe stood still, my neck started to tighten as I muttered a few slurred sentences you would only hear out of a sailor’s mouth, I then folded Bob up and slid him back into my car. Taking a deep breath, followed by an even deeper breath, I lovingly explained to Little Man that he will be walking, and that he will need to be good, Real Good, so help him, or forever live in a kennel in the garage.
As we waltzed into the store I snapped at the voice in my head that said “why don’t you just put him in a shopping cart?” by replying: “BECAUSE I DON’T NEED MY SON COMING HOME WITH SOME BARKING MONKEY DISEASE!” and then the rows of shopping carts melted down to a pile of metal and plastic and all the shoppers ran out of the store screaming something about some crazy lady having a gun.
No gun people, just a really loud rambunctious little boy with untamed super natural powers, and a mother who yells at the voices in her head.
We were in Target for 20 minutes. I aged 5 years and grew a mustache, which I plan to have waxed as soon as I can get some help tearing this strait jacket off.
Motherhood.
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