I’m quite surprised I have yet to be apprehended by the local police.

For intoxicated driving.

“No, officer. I didn’t down a couple of margaritas before I ventured out this morning. I just…have two kids,” I would stammer to the curious lawman, shooting him a knowing smile and gesturing to the back where my two children would sit. Curiously perfect angels where they were screaming, clawing demons a mere two seconds prior.

That smile, he wouldn’t so much as return, as he would then ask me to exit the vehicle and walk a straight line. Because said curious lawman is the one person who pulled me over this fine hypothetical Monday morning, who probably doesn’t have kids.

Only I’m completely incapable of walking a straight line, and this unfortunate disability is complicated by my current condition of being nine months pregs. I would wobble as I attempted to follow the marked area. Much like a weebil.

I’m shaped like one.

He would then ask me to recite the ABC’s backwards. “Uhhhh I can sing them,” I would reply sheepishly with a not-so-enchanting smile. Let’s just face it. I find the whole ABC’s backwards bit a little beyond challenging for this mush we now refer to as a thought-processing brain. My song would then be complimented by the pee pee dance, as he would refuse to release me until he at least checked my credentials {and perhaps with child services} until my sorry excuses for vaginal muscles failed me, yet again.

Let’s just face it. Hauled down to the county jail. She DID urinate on herself in public. What grown adult pees their pants?

There, I would sit sadly behind bars beside a rather large woman named DaTilda, mourning the ideal of a squeaky clean record now tainted by ridiculously demanding children and kegel exercises gone awry.

It never fails. I get them loaded into the car, ready to go. Juice. Diapers. Wipes. Snacks. Toys. Individual plasma televisions, ipods, personal masseuses…and anything else I can think they could possibly ask for.

I’m doing my best to enforce a no whining rule while driving, but sometimes it’s worth steering haphazardly, and weaving dangerously to find the last and final fruit snack, just to SHUT THEM UP.

Me: driving down the interstate. The car ride is a mere ten minutes. I find myself handling the delicate balance of chauffer, bartender, snack server, lovey retriever, car bouncer, DJ…forget outlawing phones
amidst the local public. Or that vicious rumor that elderlies should no longer be allowed to drive…I think I should be banned from all things pertaining to potential vehicular mishaps.

It’s the same song and dance EVERY single TIME.

Crying.

Aiden: Hey, hey, Mommy. Baby dropped her pacie! Baby dropped it. Will you get it, Mommy?

And of course, at first, I try the ignore-it-and-keep-driving approach. “Stay strong. They’ll learn,” I recite, as I turn up the radio... “Don’t make eye contact with the natives. They grow restless when you do that…”

Ten seconds later I find myself swerving a little as I at least attempt a glance at the floorboard to locate said pacie. Perhaps…I…can reach….

…incessant screaming driving me insane…

Aiden: I want a snaaaacccckkkk!!! Baby pooped her pants! Ew baby! I think I’m going to have to throw up now.

Me: Seriously kid? We’re almost there. (still reaching…now giving up…It’s almost like Aiden saw I was available, and decided to put in his own personal order while I was at it. )

Aiden: A frrruuuuiiiiittttt snaaaaaaacccckkkkkkk!

Me: We’re aaaaallllmooooosssssst there!

More crying. Now from Aiden, harmonizing oh so beautifully with Emerson. I think they practice while I’m asleep at night. At least they’re not tone deaf like their father.

Aiden: I dropped my toy!

Baby dropped her lovie!

I want my car!

I dropped my juice!

I waaaannnnt a snnnaaaaaaaaccckkkkk!

Me: We’re ALMOST THERE! (More haphazard weaving as I experience a simultaneous voice and blood pressure rise.) I attempt to grasp something from my bag to entertain them.

Pause: Bag=My ever growing plethora of accumulated crap, and if I happen to read one more “helpful” Martha Stewart article regarding the wonderful world of organized diaper bags I may have to mail her mine
with a pile of DIARRHEA diapers in it…

Me: STOP screaming guys. PLEASE. Mommy is TRYING to DRIVE!

Brief (shocked) silence.

Aiden: Nooooo! A fruit snack!

Emerson: Screaming.

Relentless-high-pitched-nightmarish-claw-my-eyeballs-out-and-chunk-them–at-her-screaming…

Me:
Honk.
Swerve.
Fishtail.
Donut.
Near-collision-with-a-semi-ending-in-not-so-pretty-hand-signal-altercations.

Aiden: Why did that man do that, mommy? What does that mean?

Me: Now panting breathlessly. Shaking. Turning up the radio yet again to drown out the horrid screams. (You would think I had withheld food for a good 48 hours and then slapped both of them. Repeatedly.)

Sigh.

I already have two little crazies. What’s one more? I’ll probably end up in the loony bin before they pull me over for a DUI anyway...such is the life of a contraceptively-challenged woman.

I finally embrace the inevitable and start screaming with them.

All the way to our final destination’s parking lot…

More {New} posts here:

yummy.

birdie slings & nappy bags

sassafras

A few of you know I have a love/hate relationship with the great mecca we know as Hobby Lobby. I must frequent the place to take advantage of numerous sales to keep my art/crafting supplies up to date. {An OCD gal can never have enough.}

I have found that if I leave my house frequently enough to visit the Hobby Lobby, I receive inspiration from the locals for excellent blog-a-licious material. A delicate mix of the absurd and borderline insane, I find it similar to that of shopping at a dollar store.

It all started with exhibit a: the oxygen mask lady who stalked me on the jewelry aisle, repeatedly asking me if I was “good at this” while I honestly told her I had no clue how to fix her broken earrings, and soon after absconded with some alligator clips for future Emmy-inspired flower bows, as she continually questioned me... or b. the classic, somewhat kindly with an odd mix of creepy, I-own-too-many-cats woman who found it necessary to stroke Emerson where she sat in my cart… or c. one of my personal faves: the woman I spotted in front of me in the checkout with black dress shorts pulled to her chest and opaque cream tights, all complimented with a hot pink blouse. I refrained from breaking out the camera phone. She can wear whatever she wants, but I was under the impression those business short ensembles {WITH TIGHTS, mind you} went out of style circa 1987. I expected Stacy and Clinton to jump from behind the counter with their entourage of confrontational cameras.

I was admiring said outfit when an all out ruckus exploded behind me. From the corner of my eye, I saw exhibit d. a toy promptly handed into the open hand of a woman to my left in the adjoining line, who quickly told said hander of toy “no.”

A temper tantrum then began, at levels to rival the most eloquent displays given by my theatrically strong willed three year old, himself. I think Aiden would have congratulated/taken pointers from said fit pitcher. At first I didn’t want to turn and look. “Been there, done that,” I thought to myself, saddened for the woman who had told her child no, feeling the empathetic bonds of motherhood. And then the screaming began.

Pause: I try my best to never judge another mother unless I see her putting her child at risk. Aren’t we all trying our best? That was what I thought. And then I noticed that the child was ten.

“I SAID NO!” the mother began to scream back. {Read this in your best redneck voice EVA}

“Oh LAWD,” I thought to myself as the cashier finished ringing me up, and I began to push my cart to the far corner to remove Emerson and head to the car.

Still paused: Never know the situation at hand. Child could have disability or something…but screaming back via mother? Nothing appeared to be wrong with the child on the surface, so I went with my gut-an out of control child paired with a scary parent=frequent public displays of a disastrous home life.

And then I took a good look at the child. I was honest to goodness confused as to what was going on in the gender arena of its life. It had a short hair cut with blue sweat pants and pink crocs. The pink crocs were confusing, as I would have otherwise assumed screamer was a male, and my attention was called to them as it began to stomp its foot and scream back at its caretaker. I would be miffed with my mom if she paraded me as a shim, too. Point: irate genderless kid.

I then saw the inevitable occur. A woman in front of the fit pitcher in line at the check out, turned and said something unintelligible to the irate mother.

“I DON’T APPRECIATE THE COMMENTS!” She began to scream to the apparently not-so-well-meaning commenter in front.

Point: psycho mother.

“For real. Back off with the comments. Judge silently in your mind like me,” I thought.

All the while, shim continued to stomp its foot and scream at the top of its lungs. “I WANT IT! I WANT IT! GIVE IT TO ME NOW!”

“You can keep your *&%$ COMMENTS TO YOURSELF, OKAY???” psycho mother continued to commenter in front.

Tween shim donning pink crocs kept screaming, adding a higher octave to the sheer drama of it all. Knife. Cut. Tension.

At this point I cringed, desperately trying to free my purchases and my daughter from the shopping cart. A stabbing was about to occur in the middle of hobby lobby with the nearest pair of craft scissors, and Emerson and I would NOT be around to witness it OR comment on our fabulous nightly news.

Emmy’s sandal was stuck in the leg hole of the seat, and I tried not to look toward the confrontation as the commotion intensified. Others around me stared.

We are going to die from the crossfire. A spare blade from stabbed scissors may fly in our direction. And if that didn’t kill us, blood spatter from injured commenter could fly into our open orphaces and poison our systems with some remote disease. Why else would someone make an unwarranted comment to a psycho mom? Must be a disease. I could feel the danger. It was time to take cover.

“THERE WAS A CAR ACCIDENT!” The psycho mom continued to scream in blithering rants of unintelligible spasms. “AND THIS IS WHAT HAPPENED! I DON’T APPRECIATE THE COMMENTS!”

What? I didn’t care. I finally wedged a shocked Emmy out from the cart and literally ran for the door, and to my car. I think I broke her ankle.

We shall chalk it all up to death encounter number fifty.

Such is a day in the life.

Other posts here, here, and here.