Neither of them were ready to wake up from their naps, but as soon as I said “bounce house” they were in the car with their shoes on before I could finish “and birthday cake.” Children outnumbered adults at least 1,000 to 1, or so it seemed, or maybe thats just the way my kids make me feel. The colorful castle happily rebounded with every bounce as the children repeatedly broke all of the rules and the adults wondered how no one had broken their neck yet. The intensity in James’ eyes explained the sweat beading down his forehead, and fueled his determination to recover from every almost boo-boo when he bounced out of the house and hitting the pavement wasn’t quite as forgiving. Josie fully realized that the other children’s preoccupation with jumping repeatedly and clumsily gave her free reign to their left over popcorn, juice, macaroni and cheese, cake, and various eating utensils. Because she is taking the term “terrible two” seriously, she also got in two fights, tried to ride a tricycle in the house, and threw a fork at the hostess’ father. 99% of my conversations ended mid-sentence with the words, “I lost Josie again,” and began with “have you seen my daughter?” James confused the putting green with “watch this drive,” and pulled down his pants to pee in the grass which was only seen by Jim, but now its part of a blog post, so sorry about your grass, Natalie. Josie ate as many pieces of cake as children left over, and James, itching for more bounce, finished his entire piece in one crumbly, messy bite that would have probably caused choking or vomiting in most other children. It was one of the most enjoyable parties I have ever attended. The happiest of birthdays to you, sweet girls.
Its a fitting double source of reflection Sunday; the Feast of the Holy Trinity and Memorial Day Weekend. I sort of wished all those Pinterest cameras had been at the first 30 seconds of Mass this morning because we were there on time and all dressed in coordinating red, white and blue attire. Following the procession, we were back to our normal snotty, whiny selves in the state of toddler semi-undress, and had barely escaped 3 near smashed finger in the kneeler incidents. When Mammy showed up and asked if she could take a kid or two to the cry room, I said yes, because I thought it would be nice to listen, and she was going to do whatever she wanted anyway, because that’s what Grandmas do. There we sat, with 2/3 of our creations playing loudly in the cry room with stuffed Noah’s Ark toys, called to contemplate all that God’s great creativity has made, while also remembering those lost on so many battlefields made from a confusing mix of human destruction and triumph.
I couldn’t stop thinking about my old friend Neil. His laughter was contagious. Neil was meant for big things, and his vigor, diligence, and joy made it obvious. He’s the only person I know personally that died in Iraq. He was killed just two weeks before he was to return home to his family. Many years later, his laughter continues to transcend his death in my memory. Its his life that continually helps me to contemplate the fragile nature and purpose of God’s creative masterpiece.
And my grandmother. She’s not a veteran, but today is her birthday. Since her death, she’s remained the moral figurehead of my family, as well as the source of tremendous laughter as we recount all of the funny funny funny things she did and said and the ones we did and said to her. Like the time we all timed ourselves pushing in her wheelchair at Disney world to see who could do it fastest, and the way she thought it was great. Or, when my dad left her at Wendy’s. And when she told me how much I reminded her of her own deceased daughter at least a million times, and how i still enjoyed hearing it and wish I still could because its a really special thing to be able to remind someone of a presence thought to be lost forever. And if anyone would enjoy a laugh over Pappy buying James an American Flag after Mass, only for James to immediately use to to whack his sister directly in the head, it would definitely be her.
Our Priest reminded that even as we contemplate death and memory, the creativity of God is not hiding. It wants to be found, and seeks to not be forgotten. And if it doesn’t have a sense of humor, “how could it have possibly dreamed a giraffe or hippopotamus?”
May we all find joy in the memories, and humor in the present.
As the pus continued to ooz from his eye, and as he had absolutely no regard or concern or acknowledgement or deliberation as to how close his hand was to the highly contagious bacteria I realized something.
KIDS DON’T KNOW WHAT GROSS IS.
As an adult, Gross seems like something that should be obvious to anyone, even a child. But, the number of times, I’ve said the following indicates otherwise.
Stop touching your bum. Don’t grab that diaper with your hand. Why did you play with poop? Why would you ever poop in the bathtub? Don’t touch your face, you have poop on your hand. Don’t eat mud. Hummus and ice cream definitely don’t go together. Ketchup and chocolate don’t taste good. Get your head out of the toilet. He’s pooping, get your head away from his bum. Wash your hands. Let’s take a bath. Thank you for helping, but, I think its better if I change Rita’s diaper with baby wipes and without your hands. That’s disgusting. Why would you do that? That’s not your drink. That’s not your sandwich. Please don’t spit in my drink. That’s garbage. Please throw it away. Who threw this diaper? There is throw up on that! Thats gross. That’s gross, that’s gross, that’s gross. No!!
It’s sort of a freeing realization.
But then again, if it takes several years to teach the concept of Gross, I’m not exactly sure how to make the leap to the truth of things, and God and love.
May your home be less disgusting than mine, and may you always have a baby wipe close by, just in case.
Maybe its because I re-read the Great Gatsby again in anticipation of viewing the less than Great, more like mediocre, movie version this week. Or maybe, its because three blinks ago, I was planning my wedding and on the fourth blink I’m a mom to three and have been married for much longer than it feels. Whatever the reason, this time thing, even when the minutes are long and it seemingly takes several years to reach nap time everyday, is fast, and since, as Mr. Leonardo stylishly, yet sort of shallowly reminds, we can’t repeat the past, I’d like to pause during today’s nap time, to recount all of James’ big firsts this week because he’ll be in college in what will feel like tomorrow, and the struggles of carrying three little people across the parking lot before he pulls down his pants to pee or runs in front of moving vehicles, will be the flickering green light of parking lots past.
Upon picking him up for his very last day, for the very first time, his teacher greeted me saying, “James made very good choices today.” No matter that it took all year for him to share the toy truck and hold back from tackling whomever he feels like tackling, he made good choices, and I’m proud. The finger paintings and paper kites made in that school are my treasures, even if he threw several tantrums because paper kites don’t actually fly no matter how hard or fast you repeatedly run them back and forth cross the lawn. I know pre-pre Kindergarden isn’t a real grade, and the only thing in his backpack was a pair of clean clothes in case he peed his pants. Nevertheless, he did it!
As a celebratory congratulations, we took him on a steak dinner date at the new Brazilian steak place. His awe began at being the only kid in the row of three carseats, and continued when he had free access to a steak knife and tongs. The red light, green light for more meat concept was less impressive than promised, as the churrascos tend to rely on what mom and dad say, but, collecting and taking home those cards was a dream souvenir to a evening full of three year old fantasy. Pappy confused him by throwing bread and napkins, because throwing things at dinner is not allowed, but Pappy, just like Josie, does whatever he wants to make people laugh. His belly full of steak waddled on out of there with confidence and croc-wearing swagger. He only mildly freaked out when the valet guy ran away with our car keys because the concept of a stranger running away with car keys that aren’t his is something that I probably should have explained. Then, he learned that he would be go to his first ever Pens game, during the play offs, which is an expensive way of entering the world of attending professional sports, but, he learned the terms power play and breakaway, which is surely worth lots and lots of dollars.
I was a little nervous to take him to a game, because, he, like a lot of others, thinks that his dad is Sidney Crosby, and that’s a dream I have been reluctant to clarify. Yet, now that he’s seen the real Sidney, next to his dad that looks just like him except he still has a real jaw, I think he’s just as happy. He cheered Let’s Go Pens so loud I almost made his stop. A very nice man gave him a Penguins practice puck, and I pretended not to notice that I was on the jumbotron. He had ice cream and danced without any rhythm because he has my genes and sweet tooth. He refers to the penalty box as “time out” because thats where he goes when he makes his sister bleed. He stayed awake three hours past his bed time and fell asleep with his practice puck in hand, white towel under his pillow. Thanks for the victory and the memory, Penguins.
The contents of this letter pertain mostly to your acquisition of boo-boos in the past few weeks, and for this reason, it’s really more of an injury report than anything else. On the one night which I was supposed to go out with friends, I received a phone call upon parking my car. It was Jim’s voice on the line, violent screaming in the background.
“Come home, there is blood everywhere. We have to go to the hospital.”
He then proceeded to hang up the phone. By the grace of something very holy, I remained calm, and kept my imagination in check, despite my encounter with the terrible, horrible, worst way in the whole world way of relaying injury information of the phone. But, my thoughts on that should be directed towards your dad. I arrived home to what looked like a crime scene, and you walked me through the scenario at least 4 million times, explaining, where, when, and how you took the toilet directly to the face through teary whimpers and wails. Your two front teeth are already grey and dead, and thankfully, you do not yet have enough cartilage for your nose to break, so it was the bruising that caused the most pain and enabled you to get away with eating popsicles for days. Every single visitor for the proceeding 10 days got a tour of the master bath whether or not they responded yes to your excited “wanna see where I got my boo boo on my face?”
Just a few days ago, while on my bed, you were playing, jump on mom, jump on mom, jump on mom, jump on mom, again, again, again again, through your giggles and my pleas of stop, no more, last time, don’t do it again, that’s the last time, no more, I said stop it, get off my bed, jump on dad instead, ouch that hurts. On jump 1, 456,798, I ducked without thinking and you went flying into the headboard. It was terrible. I didn’t know an earlobe could bruise, but it can, and yours is.
You are really into reading the children’s bible and your favorite story is Jophes (Joseph) and his coat. You asked me if the boys next door are going to take your coat like Joseph’s brothers took his. And you do not understand how God sending frogs to Pharoah was a plague. “Frogs are awesome, though” you explained.
You wake up everyday before 6am and you get out of your bed a zillion times at night, and you would much rather camp out in a tent and fall asleep while screaming the ABC’s. But, you finally started eating broccoli and green beans in less than 3 hrs, so I’m trying to look on the brighter side.
You made me handprints for mother’s day and I love them, even though I said, “thank you for the beautiful leaves.”
My sweet baby girl, you are taking the term “terrible two” just a bit too seriously. Two can be nice, just like one was. It doesn’t have to be, I’ll run around naked and refuse to go to bed while flushing objects down toilets, and throwing milk all over the floor and hiding my jewelry and shoes. You were disappointed today when you confused birthday candles for candy because I left you for 35 seconds to put Rita to bed. Almost every time I put her down, you take the cue and make a mess in the pantry. Then you spent 35 minutes, with your brother, trying to sweep the styrofoam from the box in which you found and ripped open the candles. I probably could have helped you, but instead, I watched and enjoyed your determination and persistence. I also folded the laundry. I was unaware that one could develop a deep gratitude for static and styrofoam, but, you can, and I did. Thank you, little one, for working so diligently to clean up your mess. You also got a train stuck in your hair today. It was on and your hair was wild, and when the two elements are combined in a close proximity, a knotty mess is the result. I called Maria to help, because a few weeks ago, her boys purposefully flew a helicopter into her hair, and it was equally as horrifying. I was able to release it, and you only lost a few strands of those beautifully messy curls.
You ask me to rub your back every night, and then, a few minutes later, you sneak downstairs and tell daddy that you want to “watch hockey.” Maybe you do, maybe you don’t, but you know he won’t say no because its adorable and he loves to hold you.
You change your shoes 17 times a day, at least. You can play soccer in every pair.
You ate 7 pieces of cornbread last night.
For mother’s day, you learned how to say, “happy Mother’s day,” and you let me put a bow in your hair.
If you could do more than babble, you would say, “crawling is awesome and so is eating all this food that is left on the floor because you can’t sweep the floor more than 7 times a day and James and Josie make more than 7 messes.”
You love eating, and you found the chord behind the fish tank and it is your new favorite and dangerous toy. James scolded you by saying, “don’t be like Dora!!” the girl from finding Nemo who kills all the fish.
You think its safe to go down steps, but it’s not, and I’m pretty nervous about it.
With every new roll in your thighs, your cuteness goes up 100 points.
You tap dance in your bouncy chair in an attempt to imitate your crazy grandma who tap dances every time she sees you.
For Mother’s day, you slept through the night and greeted me all day with a smile. It was awesome.
For Mother’s Day, you agreed to running in a military-esq mud run with me, through a mountain that is much better at providing a place to ski. I complained from moment “I’m cold and wet because its 50 degrees and pouring rain,” at mile .1 to “i’m freezing, and muddy, and it’s still pouring rain, and my butt is frozen from sled riding down that mountain without a sled” at mile 7.7. I’d like to say, thank you, and I’m sorry. You hate running, but you did it, and I complained the whole time, and said things I’d never thought I’d say like “Hold me, Cliff,” and “this is worse than diapers,” and “I’d rather be parenting.” It was fun, in the sense that it could have been fun if it were warm and 6 miles shorter, and with fewer rocks and sharp things on which to crawl and take face plants. But, you did it for me, anyway, and never complained once (during). You also sent flowers to the home. The card said “Happy Mother’s Day Virginia.” I know life is crazy with all these babies, so I’ll just gently remind you, my name is Regina. During breakfast, you pretended that 9 children between 2 families, 7 of them boys, and the oldest being 8, wasn’t stressful. Then you made me ribs and wings for dinner. I love you. There is no one with whom I’d rather have the “Itis.”
Today is the happy anniversary of a very important lesson. I was pregnant, hot, tired, and my feet were three sizes bigger than they should be. The night before, Jim was trying to figure out a way that I could get to Mass at a time other than 7am, because he knew I was low on sleep, and even lower on patience. I went to bed, and made the ever smart decision of giving God an ultimatum. I picked an obscure time, and went with it. “If I’m supposed to wake up for 7am Mass, wake me up at 6:33.” Then, within 20 seconds, I was asleep and did not set an alarm. At precisely, 6:33 am, I was briskly awoken, and begrudgingly headed to church. God’s good jokes became even more obvious as my brother in law walked on the altar to say Ascension Thursday Mass. He was filling in, and I, finding out.
Fr. Jay looked uncharacteristically sad. He stood at the pulpit and began. The Ascension, he said, is about dealing with both the highs and the lows. There is the obvious high, of a mission fulfilled, and the low, of the absence of the physical presence of God. He spoke of a trip from which he had just returned, to do a Baptism for a new baby cousin. While there, he witnessed a young couple, also family, suffering a miscarriage. In the very same day, he rejoiced in the newness and innocence of life, and the sadness of profound loss. In the very same family, one sister experienced joy and birth, as the other faced a death in her own body. The dissonance was unsettled and raw. His grief in the face of joy filled the Church. He spoke of not knowing what to say or how to comfort, so he just stayed, and said little, but prayed big. Then, he took his encounter and shared it with a church full of people, me included.
It is too often tempting to discount, discredit, and excuse the significance of the tiny and the invisible. Yet there I was, sitting in a church I seldom attend, at an hour I really hate to see, forever changed by a life I’d never meet. That baby has a mission, beyond his parents, beyond Fr. Jay, and beyond me. We all do. I needed the reminder, that day, and every day, so thank you, sweet little baby, and early morning wake up. Happy Feast of the Ascension in the midst of a mission filled with highs and lows, reaching far beyond what we see and what we do not.
May you all sleep well, and hopefully, beyond 6:33am.
Its been a week of firsts, lasts, and a lot of spilled milk; I only cried once.
Josie turned two.
We spent the morning at the zoo, where the sun was shining, and her dinosaur impression roaring. The baby sea lion made her giggle, as did the camel. James, generously and loudly, shared his knowledge that a “two hump camel makes a two hump poop,” thanks to books about potty training. Both James and Josie almost got kicked by a goat, and I was forced by the birthday girl to look at snakes and spiders. We had pizza and birthday cake at the playground, and Josie revelled in free access to the several half full water bottles the adults left within reach and un-capped. Happy Birthday, baby girl.
Rita ate hummus.
As I tried to put the groceries away within 5 minutes, I called on Josie for assistance. Sometimes (always) new two year olds drop things. Rita was thankful.
Josie figured out the microwave.
I noticed Josie’s preoccupation with her milk straw. It seemed like the perfect time to put Rita down for a nap and use the bathroom without a little one unrolling all of the toilet paper. It actually wasn’t a good time to do any of that. As I walked down the steps, I heard the beeping, and cursed the neat toilet paper roll. She stood on the chair, plastic toy spatula in one hand, the entire contents of the brand new bag of tortillas now covered in milk and half eaten in the other. “Cook,” she said. “With sauce,” the explanation continued as she pointed to the milk. I re-introduced her to the toy kitchen she received for her first birthday, and instead of blaming myself for being a bad chef and wondering why she thinks the microwave is a place for cooking and making sauce out of milk, I realized that the beeping microwave is a much better alternative to the gas stove.
I went to Marshalls with the girls while James was at school. I realized, quickly, that I was going to be able to buy nothing, because there is very little room in a shopping cart when two children are in it. I perused, and played imaginary retail therapy where I made a list of things in my head that would be nice to have and why it would be nice to have them. Interestingly, it was relatively effective for my psyche, and, it saved a lot of money. Maybe she was aided by Josie’s love of dinosaurs, or maybe imaginary retail therapy just doesn’t satisfy her need to repeatedly fold tiny pieces of paper into prehistoric origami figures. Whatever her reason, I found the box tucked away neatly in her car seat when I got home. I’m positive I did not pay for it, and even more positive that origami is a big fat frustrating waste of my time, but, thanks to Rita, not my money.
Rita is running on all fours.
Her crawl became a lot more serious this week. She’s got places to be, and hummus to eat.
I took Rita out of her baby carrier for preschool pickup.
I thought maybe it would be easier for my bicep, and I thought it was time for Rita to finally get out of that thing. It is, in fact, much harder to chase small, but, fast people in a parking lot with a still-sort-of- wobbly baby in my arms, and I’m sorry Rita, but you need to stay in it a little longer.
I left the candy unattended and within reach.
I couldn’t cope with knowing how many M&M’s she had managed to eat on the third shelf in the pantry in the dark and by herself in the time it took me to wipe his bum, so I decided not to look into the bag to discover its level of emptiness.
I kept talking on the phone when I knew it was too quiet.
Next time I’m tempted to continue talking to my sister who lives next door, on the phone, instead of checking on the kid who is being just a bit too quiet in the bathroom, I’ll remember that my plumbing bill is worth more than the conversation I’m having with the person I see most in my life.
I went upstairs to pee by myself because all of the toilets are broken downstairs.
See “Josie figured out the microwave” and “I kept talking when I knew it was too quiet.
I forgot to cut Josie’s nails.
Exhibit A: James’ very scratched and bloody arm. Three carseats across is a battle for everyone, and Josie has to defend herself, somehow.
I ran a half-marathon without training.
No one bought my bib, and I figured it couldn’t be worse than labor or crashing my bike on mile 3 of 25 during a very flat triathlon course. I was right, it was not worse, but next time, I’m training.
I didn’t immediately clean up the breakfast bowls.
See “a lot of spilled milk.”
Definitely not the last time:
I called Maria crying asking her to tell me that three- three and under is the hardest age combination there is. She said no such thing, but she did make me feel better.
The kids ran away from me in the parking lot.
An old man smiled at me and said “looks like you have your hands full.”
An old woman at the grocery store called Rita a “he” even when she was in the same exact dress at Josie.
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Things I said to my kids on Gang up on Mommy (and Rita) Day (enthusiastically celebrated on May 3)
Get out of Rita’s crib
Put down the baby
No throwing footballs at Rita
Clean up the cereal
Don’t you dare throw that chair
Rita is not a football
You aren’t allowed to make Rice Krispie treats by yourselves
Pull up your pants
Get my jewelry out of the toilet
Makeup is not food
We can’t climb the apple tree until you put on your pants
Stop mooning our neighbors
Get out of the tree, you are naked
No dancing on the table
NO CLIMBING FENCES
Don’t touch that, its poop
Take the blanket off of Rita’s face
That’s too much hair spray
Rita can’t eat marshmallows yet
Get away from the street
Its not safe to chase cars
Rocks are not for throwing
Its nap time.
1) I will never again run at the high school track during school hours, or maybe, I will still.
Yesterday, I took advantage of my mom’s nap time babysitting availability and ran to the track and then on the track in my last desperate attempt to begin training for Sunday’s half marathon. It was 2pm, directly in the middle of a lame looking gym class. There was a group of non-participators sitting on the bleachers. The gym teacher was leading a group of lazy looking butterfly stretchers on the field, while the bleacher crew rebelled from doing any athletic activity whatsoever. “Leah!!!” they called to me. I looked at them confused and borderline dumbfounded. It was surely impossible. They couldn’t actually be confusing me for one of their friends. Yes, actually, they could be. “Leah!! Come sit with us!!” I apologized for my not being Leah, and ran on convincing myself that it was just a fluke and they had probably been smoking pot in the bathroom. Approximately, thirty minutes later, after gym class had been dismissed, and after school sports had commenced, I suddenly found myself with a side by side, and uninvited teenage boy running buddy. “Hey,” he said. “Hi?” I replied.
“So what grade are you in?”
My mortification prevented me from responding right away. I began to shake my head and squint my eyes in disbelief. “My kids are in preschool!!!” I blurted as I began to sprint as fast as I could right off of the track never to ever ever return during school hours, unless accompanied by another person who actually looks like an adult ever again. Then again, I’m sure I’ll be there next week. Maybe, by then, I will finally hit puberty.
2) My kids are no longer allowed to go to Marshall’s during lunch time.
Its a common issue among all moms. We make rules, we abide by them, and grandma’s do whatever they want. Thus, every time I go to a store alone, all packages of food, unless I’ve packed my own snack, remain closed until I buy them. My mom has a different philosophy called “I give my grandchildren any kind of treat they want at all times no matter what.” Its generous, actually. On Monday, our emergency Marshall’s trip to find a new pair of half-price crocs for Josie’s birthday, ran slightly into the beginning of quessadilla time. James happened to be in Mammy’s cart because Marshall’s carts are too small for three small people, and she’s way more fun than I am. He ate an entire bag of something out of the Marshalls gourmet treat section. He shared one or two crumbs with Josie. I didn’t think all that much about it. Then, today, upon finishing playing at the park, we began heading home for lunch. “I want to go to Marshalls,” James said. Josie cheered along too. I was excited and impressed. Marshalls, my very favorite place to shop, next to TJ Maxx, is also a child fan favorite. I rejoiced in my parenting thrift shopping success. “No, kids, we are going home.” “But I’m hungry!!!! I want to go to Marshalls!!!!!”
3) I’ll keep my “tacky” ideas to myself, or maybe I will say them louder, because a Pittsburgh mall is not Project Runway and you don’t really look like Michael Kors, and definitely not like Heidi Klum.
It was a dream somewhat true. I made it to the mall for the first time in ages, and while it would have been particularly nice to be without a stroller, I only had one kid with me. Somehow, I still elicited several “you have your hands full,” even though they weren’t. Sometimes, like when I pick up or drop off James from school, I deserve that remark. Other times, when I’m at the mall and Josie is behaving perfectly and even offering impressive fashion advice (she always chooses the brighter color) I don’t. Maybe it was the stroller that screamed tacky. I’m not sure. I asked if a particular higher end store sold matching or coordinating family outfits. The fashion enthusiast male employee answered, “we would never recommend that an entire family match. I can only in good conscience point you to our window fashion stories so that you can gain inspiration to tell a relevant family fashion story with our clothes.” I wished Rita had been present in the same exact outfit that Josie was wearing, grabbed two perfectly matching father-son shirts and headed to the counter to enjoy the 25% off of all purchases in full defiance. Matching outfits are adorable!
4). I’ll hide the candy. (No, I won’t, stop judging).
In the same store, 2 minutes after I was denied help, I handed Josie a sucker because, as already mentioned, she was being perfect, and our style preference had just been insulted. She was finishing her broccoli baby food pouch, that somehow she still chooses to enjoy.
“Juice and candy at the same time?” the young woman said behind me with a staggeringly condescending tone .
In her defense, the vegetable pouch could be confused with a juice box. But, it wasn’t a juice box. Then again, who cares if it were? With my mall high deflated, I walked out of the store with two matching shirts in my bag and two big insults on my shoulders, and headed to the ice cream counter.(I didn’t really. I actually went to Bebe and bought the cutest little romper in all of stores in which mom’s of three should probably stop shopping (maybe soon). It is interesting to me how quickly we pass judgement and voice it, though.) I sort of wished all three kids were there so I could have smiled off a “have you ever heard of birth control?”, “are you done having kids yet?” or “get it out of the way while you are still young.”
5) I’ll remember to bring in my credit card, or try to remember, I have a lot of people to move.
It was our weekly Tuesday Target trip to stock up on baby food pouches so that I can endure more public insults regarding my kids sugar intake, and other household essentials, like dinosaur birthday pinatas. I piled my cart high and wide, Rita made friends with strangers (as always) and Josie threw her shoes at other unsuspecting strangers because she thinks its funny and she’s sort of right. Upon checking out and bagging all of the bags into the cart, I realized my wallet was not with me, but in the car. Since it was my first ever offense at this sort of thing, and with full confidence that I will probably do it again several times, I wasn’t too hard on myself. The store clerk had other opinions. I de-bagged my cart as she suspended my order and non-purposefully annoyed her to the brim by “taking all of her space.” I ran out as fast as a mom with two kids in a shopping cart bigger than a car could go. When I came back, I paid, and apologized, trying to make light of it and thanked her for her patience that she didn’t actually have, but hoped, in saying it, that maybe she would start having some. The jokes fell on annoyed ears and rolled eyes. My patience talk just seemed to irritate her more as evidenced by her asking a young man to “please assist this young woman to her car. She seems to need some extra assistance.” I accepted, and hoped she wasn’t further offended by how funny I found the situation to be.
How is your week going? Any one else gone running and been confused with a 15 year old?