I know that the person who invented mini grocery carts for children meant well. Obviously that person didn’t have to ever, you know, actually grocery shop with two children.
(The same goes for the inventor of the race-car cart. Great inventions guys. Really great ideas. Me? Sarcastic? No way.)
I’ve been a daredevil parent since the beginning. Soon after Carson was born and back when I still read Parents Magazine, I read that one of his toys had been recalled because the wheels on one of his plush car toys could come off and choke an unsuspecting infant.
You know what I did? Not a darn thing. I didn’t even take the death trap toy away from Carson. He continued to gnaw and gnaw on that toy, defying the odds stacked against him and that toy. I really enjoyed the added rush of excitement that lingered whenever he played with the toy.
There was also this one time (okay, about twenty times) that I put Carson in his Bumbo seat and placed him high atop a bookshelf while I went out for the afternoon with some girlfriends. Danger, schmanger. I figured he was safer up there than on the ground, prey to the dogs. He was perfectly fine when I returned a few hours later and didn’t even fall out until I got home!
Once when Ella was a baby, I let her ride in her carseat on top of the roof of my car, just to let her get some fresh air. We rode around, I took her out on the highway to pick up some speed and really let her feel the wind in her wisps of hair. The only truly dangerous thing I did was not putting socks on her wee little baby feet. Poor girl was freezing when I retrieved her. I’m lucky she didn’t catch a cold.
At the beginning of the summer, I signed both kids up for knife juggling. They didn’t really show any real talent for the sport and weren’t making any progress so I cancelled the lessons. They started practicing on their own and really started to show improvement. Nothing like getting sliced a few times to really teach them!
This pattern of dangerous parenting has continued. Why, just yesterday at Target, an employee stopped us to reprimand me for allowing Carson to ride standing up on the back of the cart. She warned me that children END UP IN THE HOSPITAL by such careless acts by parents.
It’s a good thing she taught me something about safety and parenting. I think I really have a lot to learn.
(Portions of this post were either fabricated and/or greatly exaggerated. The part about Target? 100% true.)
I just had to explain to my heartbroken four year old son why the woman pushing two kids about his age in a double stroller in front of our house didn’t say “hello” to us, even after we said “hello” and waved.
“Mommy? Why didn’t they come over? I wanted to play with them,” confused, Carson asked as tears began to fill his eyes.
I wanted to say, “Carson, I’m so sorry, sweetie. I don’t know why some people are assholes. They just are. They are the type of people we should throw rocks at. The next time they walk past our house I’ll scream ‘HELLO! HELLO!’ until she replies like a civil human being.”
Instead I hugged him and told him that they probably didn’t hear us saying “hello.” Carson looked up at me with an expression on his face that told me he wasn’t buying it. (Because seriously, we were standing at the end of the driveway saying “hello” and waving. There was no way we went unheard or unseen!)
“Well maybe they were in a hurry to get home or maybe they were really shy,” I explained again. Quickly I tried to redirect his attention to shiny, happy objects so that he wouldn’t cry and so that I wouldn’t let it slip how I really thought we should chase the lady down and ask her what her damn problem was.
People who can’t return simple human courtesies, such as saying “hello,” completely confuse me. Sadly, it’s not the first time it’s happened.
It broke my heart to see my son look at me with such excitement to see potential playmates! in our neighborhood! walking right toward us!, only to be completely ignored. How can you ignore two adorable little kids waving and saying “hello???” What is wrong with people?
Oh right! Some people are just assholes.
(These are the people we’re supposed to pray for, right?)
I was home from the grocery store for less than an hour when I noticed Tate, his mouth stuffed full of newly purchased, thinly sliced ham.
“Tate, there better be enough of that ham left for the kids’ lunches this week,” I said in my well-practiced irritated voice.
His face registered shock and fear as both of our eyes looked down upon a nearly empty package of just purchased honey cured ham.
“TATE! I JUST bought that! It was supposed to last the WHOLE week!”
End scene.
Replace ham with any food that has been specially purchased for the children and has the potential to create MELTDOWNS! and HAVOC! if we were to run out. Despite my huffing and well-practiced irritated looks, Tate continues to leave ONE granola bar in the box, that of course I realize seconds after promising TWO children their own granola bar for snack. Or he’ll leave *just enough* orange juice for a flea. He’s even been known to eat the last two cheese sticks I’d promised our children for their snack.
“How was I supposed to know you were saving that?!” he’ll reply, while I stand behind him holding a fake knife, making stabbing motions.
Look. I know I’m being petty. Of course he has as much right as anyone in our family to eat. Poor wittle Tate, I don’t want him to go hungwy!
I just want him to be able to read my mind and realize that I have plans for certain foods and that his eating said foods will make me want rip out his toenails.
“Get over it,” I’ve been told.
“Just get over it,” said with their intended tone of irritation and impatience. As if unexpectedly moving my family should just be taken in stride. Like, oh! Just another life experience to welcome! Like, I don’t have a right to have feelings, very strong feelings, about being relocated a mere seven months after having just moved. I guess there’s a statute of limitations on the amount of time you have to get over entire life upheavals.
It’s been just over one year (a year and two days, but whose counting?) since finding out that we were being transferred to Tennessee and I am getting over it. Getting, but not yet over it. It’s a tall mountain.
This mountain I continue to climb hasn’t just been about the physical aspects of moving, the inconvenience, the starting over, the unknown, and the fear that comes with boxing your personal possessions and entrusting their care to someone you hope didn’t pal around with a criminal element. The place where I always get tripped up on my climb up this mountain was and continues to be about the feeling of finally being home where we were in Indiana. The sense that we lived in Lafayette, that our house was our house, our friends were our friends, our city was actually our city. A palpable sense of possession. It was that we felt like were finally someplace that was truly ours.
(And maybe I keep sliding down this mountain because of a smidge of pure unadulterated rage towards THE COMPANY.)
Crossing over the state line into Indiana, the day we moved there, was where for the first time in ten years that I let my guard down. I stopped looking over my shoulder after having run away for all those years from the monster of THE COMPANY with it’s sharp teeth and horrible breath snarling, “You. There. We’re moving your family.”
I feel that snarling monster’s breath on my neck everyday now, again, like I did for all the years leading up to our move to Indiana. I’m bitterly angry with THE COMPANY, but I’m even more angry with myself for having been naive enough to think that a company, whose first priority is to make money and make decisions best for themselves, would finally leave us the hell alone. THE COMPANY is a business plain and simple, I understand that, but I truly believed for those seven restful months in Indiana that we were safe.
I remember one night just a few days after learning about our move, lying in bed curled in a ball as my crying turned into sobbing. My sobs shook my entire body, I couldn’t even breathe and was covered in tears and snot. With my face in my hands, I kept repeating, “please don’t make us move, please don’t make us move, please.” Tate found me and pulled me into his warm chest and told me how sorry he was. I looked into his eyes and screamed through my tears how unfair it was that THE COMPANY was in control of our entire life. Helplessly, he held me and apologized over and over until I fell asleep in his arms.
I knew my tears were futile, I knew Tate and I had made the decision together to move, but I also knew that had we decided not to move, it would have brought Tate’s career to a screeching halt.
Every time I think about that night and my rage and despair, I cry.
The pain is not as acute as it was a year ago. As the months have passed, I’ve slowly climbed this mountain and have embraced my blessings. I’ve made friends here and am involved in lots of different things that keep the kids and I busy. Our home is beautiful, so beautiful that sometimes I can’t believe I live in it. Considering the economy, I’m thankful Tate even has a job and as a bonus, makes enough money which allows me to continue staying home with the kids. Tennessee itself is a wonderful, friendly place to live. I actually really like living here, a lot.
The move, though? I’m not over it yet. While I do live in the here and now, I know better now than to be naive enough to think that we’re actually here to stay.
The doorbell rang just as I walked passed my glass front door. I thought to myself, “Damn, now I have to answer the door. They can see me.”
Gingerly I answered the door, wary that they were going to throw religious pamphlets my way. I never know how to politely decline the offer of salvation, so I was relieved when they were only two women from a local salon trying to drum up business.
They handed me a brochure of all their services and told me that they hoped they could have my business.
Ella peaked around from behind my legs and the ladies immediately remarked on her beauty.
“She’s the one who really needs a haircut, ” I said about Ella, trying to make polite conversation.
The two women looked at one another with confused and concerned looks. One of the women smiled respectfully and said, “Well, I hope you’ll come in for a haircut soon. Maybe you’d like to have make-up consultation, too?”
Gee. Thanks.
Last week I had this whole post written in my head! Somehow, despite my excitement (SQUEE!!!!), I just never got around to writing down the GOOD NEWS!
I was going to tell you about my magical new Levi’s. Finally, I had found another pair of my beloved Levi 515′s, the lone pair of jeans that I actually wear. I was going to implore you all to go RIGHT NOW to JC Penney, I was even going to call it Jacque Penn-nay to make it more chic! “Buy yourself some jeans!” I was set to declare, because OBVIOUSLY some goober at the Levi’s factory had MISMARKED the sizes on their jeans.
Instead of buying a size 10, I was able to buy a size 8! I know for a fact that I am most certainly NOT a size 8, truthfully, I’m not really a size 10, but more like a size almost-12. This was a RED-LETTER DAY!!
Oh how I loved those jeans. My ass! It looked so good because we all know that even if your ass is really a size 10 ass, if the label on the jeans say size 8, then your ass looks 1000 times better. It’s like the 11th commandment, or something.
See?
Nice size 8 ass, huh? I’m even smiling. This NEVER happens when I’m looking at my ass.
Well, this little Levi love fest was all before I washed the jeans. For, lo! When I washed the jeans, they not longer fit. No! And they were not suddenly too small, THEY WERE TOO BIG!
“How could this be!” I bellowed. Certainly I had not lost ten pounds while my jeans were in the wash. Scowling, I came to the realization that I had broken my #1 rule in jeans purchasing. I had failed to look to see what the jeans were made of…
99% Cotton
1% Spandex
The most eeeeee-vil combination in jeans. Stretchy jeans be damned! My closet is FILLED with pair after pair these hooligan jeans.
That stupid little number 8 on the tag had completely blinded me and made me forget my rule. Instead of having another perfect pair of jeans, I now have yet another pair of jeans that sags on my butt, are about 3 inches too long, and are so big through the waist that I need to wear a belt. **gritted teeth** And I HATE wearing a belt.
This here is my blog where I talk about my feeeeelings. I'm Mom to Carson, 7, and Ella, 5. I'm Jennifer and wife to Tate. I like to run and eat nachos. Not at the same time, though. Duh.
