Ahhh how I love to sit on my throne or cushy couch and shout distasteful things at the television during supernanny or wife swap. "these women call themselves MOTHERS?????".
Until this happened....
I'm working nights now and must wake up with my 22 month old alarm clock no matter how much I yearn to cover my ears with Cort's pillow. So my outfit these days consists of sweats, pony tail and shirt from last night. Make up - what's that?
Oh let me throw in this lovely side note. Quinn has developed this wonderful whining shrill that sounds like Chewbacca's little sister stuck in a blender. "UHHHHHHHHH" "UHHHHHHHHH" and she uses it for...um....everything. May I have a snack"UHHHHHH", Please turn the TV on mother "UHHHHHHHH", I think I peed in my diaper "UHHHHHH", Please transfer $4000 to my swiss account "UHHHHH". I'm sure you get the picture.
So we are at Target around 11:30a the other day. She has had breakfast, a mid morning snack and is fully clothed holding a sippy. So why oh why you ask is she superbly in a fucking pissed off mood? Well, because she's my daughter and we're in a public place and her mother is looking like complete shit wiped from our main bathroom trash can..(???) So chewy's lil sis right on cue starts in "UHHHHHHHHH". That's when I hang a right into the Target "deli" or whatever that little food/cafe thing is. As I TRY whipping the cart that QUINN PICKED OUT- you know the one I'm talking about. The Kid Cart with the big plastic kid holder in front and the rest of 20 feet of cart attached to that. It's truly comical to watch someone attempt to maneuver these buses through a grocery store.
ANYWAY, the cart IS.NOT.MAKiNG.A.RIGHT..GODDAMNIT. TURN CART TURN! As I'm willing the energy in the cart to just move it's ass, I notice all of the people in the Targe` Cafe` (heehee). Beautiful Blonde mommies, gymboree clad little girls with their hair in smooth shiny pig tails, eating their organic apple sauce, carrying on conversations with their mothers probably discussing the significance of the latin language or military strategy.
I'm starting to pit out and the muscles in or around my elbows are fatiguing trying to TURN THE GODDAMN CART. I notice these women looking at me. And of course Quinn "UHHHHHHHHH" at the top of her well matured lungs. Then I have to do the most embarrassing thing of all. Order Quinn the only thing I know she will definitely eat that will just keep her quiet. Soft Pretzel with butter and salt and a Sierra Mist please...yeah for my not-even-2-year-old. In fact, here, you can just dump out the water in the sippy cup and fill it up with pop. I could feel the stares burning into my 2 day old underwear and 3 inches of armpit hair.
And the mother of the year award goes to.......
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