Saturday night was one of those nights that should be recreated in a documentary film, and shown to horny high school kids as a form of birth control.

We were staying at Vanessa and Andrew’s house for the weekend, and Jesse had some friends come over. One of his friends brought a bottle of Knob Creek. Suffice it to say that Jesse was completely useless in the parenting department for the remainder of the night.

When we stay at Vanessa’s, the kids sleep in a little attic nook that is connected to a guest room through a little hobbit size door. Jesse and I were sleeping in the guest room on a very old bed that is a little bigger than a twin bed, but not as big as a full sized bed. (How many times will I use the word “little” in this post?)

Around 1:30 in the morning Karis woke up and screamed, “There’s a caterpillar on my arm! Ahhhhh get it off! Get it off!!!!”

I ran through the hobbit hall and flipped on the light.

“What? Where?” I asked her. “Show me!”

Karis was too freaked out to make much sense. I found a little chunk of a stretchy toy she had torn apart at Christmas, which is the last time she had used this particular sleeping bag. I showed her that it wasn’t a bug, and tucked her back in. Sadly, my assurances were no match for her vivid imagination. The game was on.

I spent the next two hours trying to convince Karis that there weren’t bugs crawling all over her. Every time I would lay back down in my own bed, she would start shrieking again. The first few times she screamed, I did a thorough search of her bedding and the area around it. I don’t think I could survive the mom guilt if I shushed her and told her it was all in her head, if there really had been a bug, and I just hadn’t seen it.

Once I had established that there were no actual bugs in the vicinity, I began to loose patience. I tried reasoning with her. I tried going along with it and telling her how I would keep her safe from any bugs. I tried commiserating with her.

At one point she asked to sleep in my bed. Normally I would have said “yes”, just to get some sleep. However, between the drunken, passed out corps of my husband, and the minuscule size of the bed we were sharing, there was no room at the inn for miss Karis.

Next she demanded Daddy come snuggle her. “Uh, Daddy can’t snuggle you right now. He’s asleep.” “Wake him up! I want Daddy!” “I can’t wake him up. I gave him a magic sleeping potion, and he wont wake up until sunny time.” Her eyes got very big at this revelation. Mom gave dad a sleeping potion?! Just like in Sleeping Beauty or Snow White. I KNEW she was a witch!!!

After two hours of this – the shrieking, the waking up of the Brecken, the searching for invisible caterpillars – I finally said to my sweet, scared, three year old daughter, “THERE ARE NO FUCKING CATERPILLARS IN YOUR BED!” That is a verbatim quote. I am not proud of this.

Shortly after my head exploded, I moved Karis’s sleeping bag to the side of my bed. She snuggled in, and slept the rest of the night. The next morning she came over to me and said, “Mama, I’m sorry you got mad at me last night.” My heart fell out of my chest, and I answered her, “I wasn’t mad at you, Love. I was frustrated about the bugs, okay? I’m sorry mommy lost her temper.”

That was a very sweet moment that we shared, and for all that I explode at the world in front of my children on a regular basis, I am happy to see that they are also taking note of the fact that after I explode, I try to make amends, and I make a point of trying to do better next time.

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I just touched bumpers with a woman that is either a) very trusting or b) beautifully naive. She is also c) very lucky I am an honest person.

Karis’s preschool has the most obnoxious parking/pick up area I have ever encountered. It is a very thin strip of asphalt running the length of the building. In warm weather a rag-tag group of pudgy, middle-aged, Mexican men can be found playing futball in the field that abuts the asphalt strip – because the strip isn’t already crowded enough with impatient parents rushing to pick up tired toddlers. (Don’t get me wrong – I love a nice boring game of futball as much as the next guy. I don’t even get upset when the ball hits my car (3 times and counting) but for the love of God, could they please play farther away from the stupid asphalt strip!?) I digress.

The futballers don’t really have anything to do with this story. It is cold, and the field is sporting a crusty blanket of snow, so, no futball.

Tonight as I pulled up to the entrance of the ever so narrow asphalt strip, there was a delightful Maryland driver attempting to parallel park. Anyone who has ever driven in Maryland before knows that this process can take upwards of 3 hours. Coming from the other direction was a line of 3 cars. They were waiting for the parallel parker to get far enough over for them to pass.

After witnessing the parallel parker begin a fourth attempt at parking, I decided to cut my loses and just park at the far end of the strip. To do this would require me to back up half a car length.

I knew there was a car behind me. What I didn’t know was that the car was attempting to sniff my SUV’s butt, and therefore had inched its way closer as I had watched the astounding ineptitude of the parallel parker in action. In layman’s terms, this car was “all up in my business”.

I checked my mirrors and back window. I saw a car about 3 car lengths behind me and thought it was the car that had just been directly behind me. I momentarily forgot that the car directly behind me was most likely being driven by a Maryland driver that would see my reverse lights and watch my vehicle backing up like their own personal 3-D movie experience.

I began to back up.

I backed up about a foot before I heard a horn beep. Had I just felt a breath of resistance? I stopped my car and opened the door. There was a small black sedan behind me.

I called to its open window. “Did I just touch you?”

Naturally, it was at this moment that our friend the parallel parker successfully maneuvered himself out of the way, and the cars piled up behind him came forward, eager to be on their way. Now it was my turn to block the asphalt strip.

The driver in the sedan was a beautiful black woman in a business suit. By “beautiful” I mean classy mom beautiful a la Michelle Obama, not trashy twenty something beautiful that fades the second she opens her mouth.

“Yes, I’m sorry! I didn’t beep fast enough!”

“Well, did I do any damage?” I looked at her bumper. There was a small scratch on the corner of her passenger side. She got out to take a look.

Just then, an impatient father with a hint of self-righteous indignation huffed over to me and said, “Would you please move out of the way? I have to get my child!” He said this as if his child was currently waiting for him in a burning building, rather than a toy filled pre-school classroom.

We pulled over to the side of the asphalt strip and reconvened at her bumper. The scratch was so small I would have considered it par for the course, but I felt honor bound to ask, “Did you want to exchange information or are we fine?”

She definitely wanted it fixed. “I plan to keep this car!” She said. (I barely managed to contain a sarcastic comment about the car being “totaled”) I gave her my numbers and she jotted them down, along with my license plate number. This is where I turn into the worlds sketchiest bumper scraper.

I have New York plates.

I have a California driver’s license – but she wouldn’t know that because my secret inner butch lesbian prevents me from carrying a purse, and I had left my little card carrier on my desk at home, having just payed way too much for a set of Pottery Barn sheets.

I never showed her my insurance information because I didn’t want to deal with Geico. (15 minutes could save you 15% or more!)

In summation, tonight I brushed bumpers with myself from 10 years ago. She is lucky she was scratched by me and not anyone else, because most anyone else would have given her false information, or debated the fault of the incident in the first place.

*sigh*

Tomorrow I will call my local auto paint shops for quotes. After that, I will wad up a few twenty dollar bills and light them on fire, because I like to burn money. If I’m lucky, I’ll have the forethought to put a dollar aside for ear plugs to help drown out the inevitable bitching that is sure to be forthcoming from my husband.

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The local news station is screaming about a record snow fall descending upon the DC area tonight. Naturally, this information makes everyone hungry?

Every time there is mention of ANY type of weather that is even mildly out of the ordinary, people freak out and rush to the grocery store. Tonight is no exception. Unfortunately, this mass freak out coincides with my weekly shopping trip. If that’s not annoying enough, Jesse needed the car today, so I was unable to go during the quiet part of the day. Noting my death ray glare as he informed me he was taking the car, Jesse said he would do the shopping on his way home.

All of this equals the perfect storm of grocery shopping horror.

Jesse is not the most patient man. It would not be stretching it to say he is down right impatient. The last place he wanted to be on the Friday night that begins his vacation was a crowded grocery store. He was *not* a happy shopper. How do I know he was not a happy shopper? He made sure to tell me in great detail just how unhappy he was as he fought his way through the aisles. He even sent pictures! This one is my favorite:

Taken from the back wall of the store. Every line was this long.

“The asinine, retarded things I do for you. I swear to God…” – My loving husband from the very long check out line at the grocery store. (Apparently *I* am the only person in my household that eats food…from the grocery store. Or maybe it’s my fault he took the car today, thus leaving me unable to go shopping before the paranoid crazies stormed the store? I dunno. Either way, sexy talk like that gets me all hot and bothered!)

How does this story end? He jumped ship! After an hour and a half of steaming play by play, he gives up and leaves his cart – but not before a charming employee threatens to shoot him in the head! (said with a chuckle, of course.) Ya gotta love that DC humor. What exciting urban flavor.

This means he will attempt to go to the store tomorrow. During the snow storm. By this time tomorrow I may very well be a hungry widow.

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BROTHER: I’m taking dad’s old Volkswagen bus to California. (from Washington…with an infant)

MOM: Do you have extra belts?

BROTHER: No. Don’t need any. I just put a new one on.

MOM: You really should – you know how old Volkswagens can be. Here, take these socks, just in case.

BROTHER: *exasperated sigh reminiscent of a disgusted teen* MOM, I don’t want a bunch of stuff cluttering up the car.

MOM: Here – at least take nylons. They’re flat, slip them into the door pocket.

BROTHER: FINE.

Shortly into the trip the new belt snaps. BROTHER uses nylons and duct tape to make a temporary belt. After all the hassle he calls MOM to tell her she was right.

MOM: The belt snapped! He had to use nylons and duct tape to fix it.

DAD: Why didn’t he use the spare belts I keep in the storage compartment?

MOM: Hahaha. You had spare belts in the storage compartment?!

DAD: Of course. You know how old Volkswagens can be.

Happy Thanksgiving to my goofy family! Justin – I’m glad you made it safe and sound. Kiss the baby for me.

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So I’m listening to Biz Markee lament about his girl trouble at full volume, (because THAT’S how I roll) when the phone rings.

Oh bay-be you, you got what I neeeed. And you say he’s just a friend, you say he’s just a friend. Oh Bay-be…

I’m across the house from my computer, so I can’t turn it down before answering the phone. It’s Karis’s school – never a good sign.

ME: Hello?!

SCHOOL: Hi, Kristy?  It’s Ms. XX from XXX school. Karis stuck a bead up her nose and we can’t get it out.

ME: Again?!

SCHOOL: She has done this before?

ME: Yeah, a couple three times. I’ll be right there.

SCHOOL: Okay, see you in a minute. Uh, I didn’t know you rocked it old-school.

ME: Oh sure, I’m pretty bad-ass.

So I go rollin’ into her classroom with my posse (Brecken) and find Karis sobbing at a table. She is sporting an elaborately bejeweled Indian head-dress.

ME: Oh Karis, what’s the matter?

KARIS: I put a bead up my nose. A blue one.

(Karis is not one to skimp on details. She is also very particular about the quality of bead she will put up her nose. Had this bead been red or green, you may not be reading this post.)

It was so far up her nose this time that even my experienced hands couldn’t dislodge it. What followed was a delightful trip to the overcrowded E.R. As always, I managed to capture some of the magic to share with my homies. You’re welcome.

Nose Bead from Theprimamomma on Vimeo.

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When I was pregnant with Karis I used to have nightmares about leaving her at the grocery store, or forgetting her baby seat on the roof of the car and driving off. It’s a common anxiety dream of new parents.

Even today I catch myself thinking, “Did I remember Brecken?” because he is so quiet during car rides. Of course I never really think I left him behind, but I always let that thought pass through my mind as he quietly rides along in the back seat.

My grandmother left my mom behind at the grocery store once. In her defense she had five kids to keep track of. She had a neighbor kid in the car with her and never even realized my mother was missing until she saw her trekking up the driveway.

“Oh Ren! I’m sorry.” Laughed my grandmother.

My mom says that was the only time she ever told her mother to shut up.

I can’t blame her really. She was only 7 or 8 years old and it was well over a mile to get home. She had to go past Mrs. Hubble’s house, with the peacocks, and past the scary house next to that, with the mean Siamese cats. My mother was convinced those cats were out for her blood. She would tuck her arms in close to her body in preparation of passing by, and run as fast as her skinny little legs would carry her.

Well, today I joined the ranks of negligent mothers everywhere when I left Brecken behind at Karis’s pre-school.

Ok, it wasn’t as bad as it sounds.

Brecken has been very insistent on walking lately. Today when we were picking Karis up from school we spent a few extra minutes searching her classroom for her doll. Brecken happily explored the area while I hunted through the nap cots.

As we were leaving, Karis and Brecken followed me down the hall like little ducks. The hall was a bit crowded due to the school getting ready for a fund raiser on Saturday. In order to leave the school, one must pass through two sets of doors. One requires a personal code be entered for access, and the other leads to outside.

As I opened the first door I held it open for my little ducks to pass through. I caught site of a mommy friend and asked, “Will we see you at the fund raiser Saturday?”

“Yup. We’ll be there!”

I continued through the door and tried to open the outer doors. They were stuck. I struggled with them for a good 15 seconds before they finally opened. It was then that I realized Brecken wasn’t behind me.

I quickly typed my code into the first doors and threw them open.

There was my boy. Half way down the hall, eyes as big as saucers.

“Is this somebody’s?” A teacher was asking.

I smiled and picked him up.

“We wouldn’t have left him alone.” She assured me.

Geeze. It had been 20 seconds!

“I guess it’s better than if I left him in the parking lot, huh?” I said as I hauled ass out the door lest Karis get any ideas about making a run for it before I caught up to her.

So there you have it. Brecken was left behind today. Thank goodness it was at a pre-school and not the child sweat shop I frequent on Fridays. That could have ended badly.

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My uncle’s wife makes a line of chap sticks called Naturally Wicked Lip Balm. Having giant lips that need constant hydration, I am a bit of a chap stick connoisseur. I was very excited the day a package of lip balms arrived in my mail box. Aside from being made of natural ingredients, they are deliciously flavored!

The package contained a variety of lip balms with names like mocha latte and peachy keen. By far my favorite ended up being lime. It is very citrus-y and refreshing.

I toted my precious lime lip balm with me everywhere I went. If my lips felt the slightest bit dry I would happily slather some on. I was understandably horrified the day I reached into my pocket and found it empty! Where was my lime lip balm?!

I was in the childrens’ section of my local library. Toddlers wandered around the area clutching books and fighting over half chewed wooden puzzle pieces. I followed after Brecken as he joined the masses of diaper clad board book enthusiasts. As we ambled past a table my eye was drawn to a quiet little girl. In one of her little fists she was holding a well worn doll from the library’s doll house (circa 1976) and in her other fist she was clutching…No – could it be? My lime lip balm?!

I could just make out the distinct purple cap.

Don’t be ridiculous, I thought. Lots of chap sticks have purple caps.

Just then, the quiet little girl decided to stand. She braced herself against the table, accidentally dropping the chap stick in the process. It rolled to a stop right in front of me. I could clearly see the Naturally Wicked Lip Balm title set against a pink pentagram. I bent and picked it up.

“Oh, thank you.” came a voice beside me. I looked up to see the girl’s mother.

“Actually, I think this is mine. It must have fallen out of my pocket earlier.”

The mom looked at me like I was some creepy chap stick thief.

“No, it’s ours.” She said sweetly. “I just gave it to her out of my purse.”

“Are you sure? You gave her this chap stick?” I was surprised this mom wanted to keep my chap stick so badly. That’s gross. She didn’t know what kind of cooties I had. Used chap stick is a veritable petri dish of yuck.

“Yes, I’m sure.” She held out her hand expectantly.

“I really think you might be mistaken. You see, I happen to know that this brand of chap stick is a very tiny, boutique brand made very far away.”

She was starting to look uneasy, like she was just realizing she was dealing with a paranoid schizophrenic.

“Well, I don’t know about that. I’d have to ask my mother. She sent it in a care package. My daughter loves peaches.”

Peaches? What is she talking about?

“Where does your mother live?”

“Sparks, Nevada.”

Yup. You guessed it. My uncle and his wife live five miles away from Sparks Nevada.

Just as she said “Sparks” I noticed the flavor title on the chap stick tube I was holding hostage. It was peachy keen. Not lime.

“Oh my gosh! Sparks! What are the odds?”

She was still waiting for the chap stick.

“Oh, God. I’m sorry – here you go.” I stumbled over myself to give her her lip balm back. “You must think I’m crazy!” I chuckled at her, waiting for her to return the laugh. She didn’t.

I ended up finding my lime chap stick a few weeks later in the bottom of my camera bag. Sadly, our reunion was to be short lived.

I went to visit my step-mom this last week. She has a pet pig. Yes, I know – but it’s a far sight better than the pet alligator she used to have.

The pig’s name is Baby. He is very tame and loves to snuggle. Baby is a comical delight. He grumbles under his breath like a pissy teenager whenever he is forced to do something other than snore under the covers or bask by the fireplace. Aside from his affinity for chewing on the linoleum in the entry hall, Baby really only has one vice; He can’t help but ingest things that smell edible.

He doesn’t waste time with unwrapping the random treasures he stumbles upon in his daily sojourns around the house. He’s more of a cram-it-in-and-swallow kind of guy. You can already see where this is going.

Baby found my lime lip balm.

It all happened in slow motion. I can still recall in vivid detail watching that little piggie snout push its way around the pocket of my carry-on bag. I wasn’t giving in without a fight! I wrestled that piggy. I stuffed my hand into his slobbery mouth and pryed my lime lip balm from his squealing jaws. Alas, this is all that remains of my lime lip balm:

I’ve been forced to use watermelon or margarita ever since.

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My legendary inability to recognize faces has been well documented. This handicap of mine does not extend to the animal kingdom. I’ve worked with animals for years – pet stores, vet hospitals, ranching, animal rescue. While I could rarely put a name to an owner’s face, I always knew the animal.

Whenever someone forwards me those Amber Alert emails I always carefully study the child’s picture, knowing that it’s an exercise in futility. That very kid could knock on my door minutes later, and I would not recognize them. I give the same respect to lost dog notices. I take a good look at the dog, note it’s breed, sex, and name, and file the info away in one of the crevices of my  mind.

In the last four weeks or so I have seen two lost dog notices. One of them is for a female Jack Russell terrier named “Rocksy” and the other is for a blond, male corgi mix named “Bosco”.

I took the kids to the park on Sunday to watch Jesse play tennis. As we approached the slides a very excited little boy asked Karis if she wanted to pet his dog. Karis said, “No.” and we continued on our way. The boy enthusiastically dragged the dog around to each piece of equipment and tried to get it to go down slides and jump off platforms. A few boys came over and started to play with the boy and his dog. I overheard the boy say, “My mom said she wouldn’t buy me a dog, but I found this one on the street for free!”

This sent alarm bells off in my head. I looked again at the dog and noted that it was a blond, male, corgi mix, very much like the dog from the lost dog notice. I walked over to the boy and scratched the dog behind the ears.

Me: “What a nice dog. Did you say you found him on the street?”

Boy: “Yeah, he’s a good boy.”

Me: “What’s his name?”

Boy: “Bucky.”

Me: “When did you find him?”

The boy hesitated for a moment, then answered.

Boy: “Uh, three days ago.”

Me: “Well, he matches the description of a lost dog in my neighborhood.”

Boy: “Well, he’s not a lost dog. He’s MY dog!”

Me: “You said you found him three days ago.”

Boy: “Uh, I meant three years ago.”

Me: “Really? So if I call this number on his tag, your name will come up as his owner?”

Suddenly the boy became very uncomfortable. I called Jesse and Patrick over so I could use a phone.

Boy: “I want to talk to my mom. I don’t think you should call anyone.”

Me: “It’s no big deal. If he’s really your dog, the tag info will say so. It will only take a minute.”

I proceeded to call the vet hospital listed on the dog’s rabies tag. It was Sunday, so I got their answering system. There was no option to leave a message, but the boy didn’t know that, so I bluffed and left a message giving a description of the dog and the tag number.

Boy: “I want to talk to my mother.”

Me: “Okay, what’s her number?”

Boy: “Uh, her phone isn’t working.”

Me: “Oh, I see. Well, where do you live? I’ll walk home with you and we can ask your mom about the dog.”

The boy fidgeted and shrugged. “I live down there.” He sulked and waved noncommittally down the road.

I left the kids with Jesse, and Patrick came with us. I realized I was being that woman. That obnoxious, nosy woman that feels it is her duty to get involved in playground drama that doesn’t concern her. I justified my actions to myself in my knowledge that I would want someone to do the same for me, should my dog ever be lost.

As we ambled down the road I told the boy, Daion was his name, that the owners of the lost dog were offering a reward. I played to his emotional side and asked him how he would feel if his dog were missing and someone decided to keep it instead of giving it back. Each of my attempts to convince him to admit the dog wasn’t his were met with his steadfast denial that he had originally said he found the dog three days ago.

Half way down the second block I asked him his address. I didn’t want to waste all day walking down streets toward an imaginary house.

Daion: “Uh, I don’t really know my address.”

Me: “You’re like, twelve years old, and you don’t know your address?!”

I was getting really tired of being played by this time.

Daion: “Well, it’s not my address. It’s my mom’s friend’s house…”

Me: “I see. Well, then point to the house. Is it far?”

Daion: “No! It’s right down there! I swear!”

Me: “Okay Daion. But I’m going to be really frustrated if we get down there and it’s not the right house. You can understand my skeptiscism, considering your story has changed like, five times, right?”

When we reached the house in question Daion ran inside, leaving me holding Bucky’s leash on the porch. Patrick and I could hear his upset, muffled voice talking rapidly behind the door. Suddenly the door burst open and a disheveled  woman with frizzy grey hair jumped onto the porch.

Some people have a special air of crazy about them. It’s an undeniable vibe they give off. They may as well have a flashing neon sign above their heads blinking “BAT SHIT CRAZY”. This delightful woman was one such person. Patrick and I could feel the crazy emanating from this creature like stink from a skunk. She saw me holding Bucky’s leash and grabbed it away from me.

Woman: “What are you doing? This is my dog. What the hell is going on?”

Me: “Sorry to bother you. I overheard Daion say he found this dog, and it matches the description of a lost dog in my neighborhood.”

Woman: “Well I DID find him. FOUR YEARS AGO. He was running down the street and I saved him.”

Me: (deciding on one last bluff, because this woman was clearly just going with Daion’s story.) “I called in his tag number and he is listed as missing.”

Woman: “That’s because I listed him as missing FOUR YEARS AGO WHEN I FOUND HIM.”

Me: “Right. Well, I’m sorry about the mix up – it’s just Daion’s story kept changing, and I found him hard to believe…”

Woman: “That boy is staying with me while his grandparent’s are in the hospital!”

Me:    Blink.         Blink. Blink.  “Ok.”

Not ones to purposefully antagonize the local crazies, Patrick and I left. I took note of the woman’s address and had Patrick email it to me along with the number of the vet hospital I had called from the tag. (Wow – a blackberry actually being helpful instead of annoying!) I smacked myself for not having taken a picture of Bucky while I had the chance. I hoped I had remembered the tag number correctly. I fully intended to call the vet hospital back after the holiday weekend and verify ol’ crazy’s story.

Before going home I asked Pat to run me by the YMCA, where I thought I had seen one of the lost dog notices. There was no lost dog notice on the board.

Once home, I couldn’t leave it alone, so I hopped on my bike and rode down the trails, checking the public notice boards where I had seen lost dog signs before. Nothing. No lost dog notices on any of the boards.

Suddenly I’m Russell Crowe in A Beautiful Mind – convinced there is some kind of tragic dog kidnapping conspiracy afoot, and I am the only person who is on to the game.

I let it go for the rest of the weekend. Then, bright and early this morning I called the vet hospital.

I told the receptionist I had found a dog with tags from her hospital. She couldn’t find the tag number in her system – I must have remembered it wrong – so I asked her to run a check on an address. Her computers were down, so she would have to call me back.

I waited, confident that she would find Bucky’s – or should I say BOSCO’S – true owners. Or rather, that she would find no record for that address in her system.

The phone rang.

She had found the dog’s info, but both numbers listed were disconnected.

Me: “Oh, so the address is a match?”

Receptionist: “Yes, but they have only been here the one time. The numbers don’t work. I guess you’ll have to take him to the shelter and hope for the best.”

Me: “I’ll just Yahoo Map it.”

Receptionist: “Great idea!”

Me: (one last verification) “What is his name?”

Receptionist: “Bucky.”

Right.

The crazy bitch in this story? Is me.

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I decided to take the kids to the train and carousel today, and maybe snap a few pictures of them at the park.

Last night, while stirring pasta, I splashed boiling water on my abdomen, resulting in second degree burns. It feels much better today, but due to the location of the blisters, I am forced to wear a pair of old draw-string maternity pants. (This random information comes in to play later.)

As we ambled down the ramp to the mini train station I noticed a woman in front of me pushing a baby in a jogging stroller. What caught my attention about this woman was her shorts. They were khaki shorts that ended just above mid-thigh. I have an identical pair of shorts. Jesse calls them my “Grandma shorts” because of their high waist and unflattering cut.

Hmmph. I thought, If Jesse were here, I would point out that there is a young mother wearing my so-called grandma shorts!

Just then we arrived at the train platform and I heard someone call out from behind me.

“Mom! Andrea says she’s never been here before!”

I turned to see a woman about my age approaching the woman wearing my shorts. Her mother. Point, Jesse.

*                                          *                                          *                                             *

I was holding Brecken as we waited to board the train. Karis was doing that whiny, lean against mommy, thing. Suddenly, she turned and pulled on the drawstring to my pants.

Have you ever tried to pull up a pair of loose pants while holding a squirming toddler in one arm and a purse in the other? In public? While your ass hangs out for all the world to see? I have.

*                                          *                                            *                                              *

After providing the other train riders with their afternoon entertainment, we rode the carousel. Then Karis wanted to play at a little park. Brecken followed her up onto a platform. I was on this platform, right behind him, when a nanny and another toddler came over. The nanny effectively blocked my easy way down from the platform, and I had to contort my body to get off the platform in time to catch Brecken at the end of the slide. He likes to launch himself down slides head first – his fearlessness in doing so speaks to my previous track record of catching him.

When I turned quickly to catch Brecken I did something very wrong to the inner workings of my right foot. I thought for sure I had broken something. I fully expected to look down and see no less than two metatarsals protruding from the top of my foot.

I paused a moment, then took a deep breath and gingerly put a little weight on the foot. Being a three year old, Karis can smell weakness in any form. She took this opportunity to tear off down the path toward another park. Thankfully, I have mastered the so-help-me-God-you-better-listen-to-me voice. I called her back to me and together we staggered back to the car.

Have you ever driven home using only your left foot? Making jerky stops and awkward turns? I have.

Now here I sit, right foot iced and elevated, barking orders at the kids to behave! and stop fighting! like a gimpy Ms. Hannigan smelling of Tiger Balm rather than bourbon.

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