I have finally decided to resign myself to something that I've known for a long time now, but have been trying to deny: I'm a naughty Mommy. From now on, it's no apologies, no guilt. Bad Mommies of the World Unite!
Today the I dragged the kids to the grocery story for the forty-seventh time this week. Yes, it's only Wednesday. Yes, we've already spent approximately seventeen thousand dollars on groceries in the month of July alone. Yet, we had to go to the store AGAIN because, just like the promise of Jesus rising from the dead after three days, we were Cheerio-less, milk-less, and fruit-less in the same span of time. Somehow this happens every week, no matter how much I buy and no matter how sufficiently I starve the children. 'Tis the cards I've been dealt.
Unloading the kids from the Xterra and getting them into the store is equivalent to a full-blown cardio workout (this is AFTER I've gotten them ready, loaded in the car, and driven to the store, which counts as three additional workouts). Unloading goes something like this: Bellamy is unbuckled, and gets tangled in the seat belt. While she frees herself, she dumps all the change from her purple crochet sequin purse into the parking lot (half of which rolls under the car). She begins to cry because her twenty-nine cents is scattered all over creation. I pull her from the car, during which time she has managed to re-tangle her purse in the seat belt and get her shoe stuck beneath the armrest of the booster seat. The booster seat falls into the parking lot and her shoe comes off. She starts screaming that her shoe is off, and as I tuck all 50 pounds of her under my arm and bend to pick up the booster seat, I whack her head on the side of the Xterra. She starts to scream. I dump her back in the car, throw the booster seat inside, pick up the shoe, and reshoe the screaming kid. In the meantime, Sutt has started yelling that HE'S THIRSTY! and bucking against his car seat straps. I get her out and get ahold of her hand, and take her around to his side of the car. I start to unbuckle him, during which time Bellamy crawls under the car and starts foraging for her lost change. I tell her to get out, and she actually LISTENS, but hits her head AGAIN on the open door as she stand, hence resuming the screaming. Sutt is still yelling over and over that HE'S THIRSTY! and he WANTS TO GO TO THE POOL! as I try to force his arms under the car seat straps (while he's clutching a truck in each fist). When he's finally free, I realize that the car keys have fallen between the seats and are somewhere in the back of the car. I tell both kids to STAY PUT while Mommy finds the keys, then I open the back, and crawl (in my sundress and flashing the world my panties) into the back and start digging around for the keys. It's about then that I notice that Sutt has gotten my purse and dumped the entire contents into the parking lot, then hung the strap around his neck as a "man necklace." I consider curling into the fetal position in the back of the car and crying. Instead, I locate the keys, gather my stuff, grab the kids and head for the door to the store. Twenty yards from the door, Sutt breaks away and starts to run off, at which point I yell at the top of my lungs, "Get back here, Kid! Mommy is TOO DAMN TIRED to scrape you off the asphalt when a car runs you over!" I receive nasty looks from other shoppers. I consider giving them the finger. I decide I am too exhausted to raise said finger and instead give them death stares. We make it into the store. Finally.
I won't even go through what all happened once we started shopping.
The point is that this happens EVERY SINGLE TIME. Today was not some out-of-the-ordinary, disastrously unusual outing. THIS WAS THE NORM. Someone is always injured. Someone always makes Mommy curse. Someone always ends up getting a cheap thrill from my underwear.
I ask you, however--should I feel badly for whacking my kid's head against the car? Should I feel badly for losing twenty-nine cents, not acknowledging my daughter's tears, ignoring the fact that my son is thirsty, exposing my panties to the other shoppers, or acting both nonchalant and cold-hearted at the idea of my son being squashed by an inattentive motorist? Perhaps. But do really, truly care? For once, hell, no.
I do not. And that makes all the difference.