To mark the three week anniversary of being a mother of two, I thought I would attempt something gutsy – a trip to the grocery store just me and my sons.
The ride was uneventful, and Oliver continued to slumber while I unloaded him. I hooked the carseat to the front of the cart, hardly believing my good fortune, and Bronson gripped the side of the cart while walking beside me.
We made it through the produce and into the cracker isle where Bronson promptly dashed for the Cheese-Its and hiked them into his arms like a quarterback. He bolted around the cart and erupted in giggles. If I wan’t his mom, his antics would have amused me.
His butt found a seat in the back of the cart, and the Cheese-Its returned to the shelf.
Since we were already using a mini-cart because Kingfield doesn’t even qualify as a mini-metropolis, Bronson repeatedly found himself buried in food. The ham steak on his foot evoked screeching. His screeching awoke Oliver, and the rest of the trip was filled with Oliver’s bellowing.
The experience dumbfounded Bronson. Not only had he been demoted to the back of the cart, people weren’t gawking at him anymore. Truth be told, people weren’t gawking at Oliver either. They were gawking at me – the mom grocery shopping with one screaming child and one buried-alive by crackers and juice.
The truth is I should have known better. Yesterday we tried to go to the library. Within minutes, Oliver pooped. While I tried to change him in between book stacks, Bronson erupted with hysterics because I wasn’t helping him locate a ball (the real reason he wants to go to the library to begin with).
Oliver demanded to be fed, and Bronson promptly became frustrated by a buried toy. I figured with Oliver in the football hold and a hooter hider to maintain some modesty I could reach Bronson, solve the problem, and promptly be mom of the year.
It turned out, I could not.
Bronson remained hysterical. Oliver became frustrated at my sudden movement. And I dragged both of them back into the lobby. Thankfully Ryan arrived to the rescue, just in the knick of time.
I’m sure those octomoms and moms with five kids under five think my life is perfectly easy. I’m sure if I ever have more, I’ll think these days were easy too. But for now, two by two, seems practically impossible. We may have to become hermits. For at least forty days, or until the flood of tears ceases, or until a dove of peace arrives.
You may not see me for awhile.