I got saved. Served. Saved. Whatever.

I got saved. Served. Saved. Whatever.

Today.

Today was one of those days. If you might be about to start a family, or pregnant, or thinking of becoming pregnant, or thinking you might want to get married and someday yes someday have blissful little spawns of yourself pitter-pattering around your house and lawn

LEAVE. THIS. BLOG POST. NOW.

Because today was an ohmyhellyouhavegottobekiddingme day.

I seriously almost starting crying in Sunflower Market. Twice. And that place is my happy place.

The first time was because my sweet and loving and awesome five-year-old helped an elderly lady in the most heart-breaking and tender moment ever. He saw her get dropped off right at the door, then shuffle up towards the entry and stop. She looked at us, then looked at the baskets outside in the bitter cold on a sidewalk packed with snow and yuck and spots of ice and asked if she needed to get a basket from outside or were there some inside? The Goldfish looked at her and reached over for a handheld green one and took it to her.

But she’d need a bigger one, she said.

So he gently took that one back and tugged and pulled and got a little sideways but finally wrenched it unstuck, then pushed a big one one over her way.

Oh boy, but does he get it. He takes care of others. All the time. He makes sure they’re having fun, being looked after, have what they need. And he’s that way with his little brother on a daily basis. Sure they fight and yell and scream and cry at each other, but it’s mostly because that little one is being a TOOT.

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Well. What could I do but drop to my knees and give him the biggest bear hug ever? He asked me if I was so proud at him?

Yes, baby. So, so, so very proud at you.

But the second tear-filled time? That little Terror of mine socked me in the gut when I was all emotional. He was a handful at the store. He pitched this fit and that, demanding that I release him into the belly of the store to “go pay” (ha; yes I would have, but in Terrorese that means “play”). I was the sad looking mom, still in the yoga pants at 4:30 in the afternoon that she slept in the night before, stocking cap covering up needing-to-be-washed hair, shuffling around the store in fuzzy Crocs of all things and searching for whole organic milk and organic eggs with omega-3 and some Emergen-C and gluten-free pizza crust. The louder he yelled, the more I withdrew, and then I just got pissed. I dared anyone to look at us and say anything, because everything that I wanted to yell at him I would yell at them.

But no one did. They kind of stayed away.

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On the way home, he was happy as could be in the car, singing and laughing and joking with older brother. He’s been wearing one sock with Squirt the Turtle on it (think Finding Nemo) and the other with swinging monkeys. So fitting. And between a constant chatter of, “Mommy, tuh-tuh” and “Mommy, theeee monkeeeees” I heard, “Mommy, yuck-a mee” which is never good in the car. I turned around and freakin’ panicked to see him OUT OF THE SHOULDER PARTS of his his 5-point seat belt harness (still buckled in around the pelvis, though) and reaching forward to hold onto the back of the passenger head rest. COME ON!! There was NOWHERE safe to pull over on a stretch of mile-long, snow-packed road with cars behind and in front and snow drifts on either side. I just 10 and 2’d it, praying to Jesus, Mary, Joseph and God that we would make it home safely. Sanely. Safely. Sanely.

Lord. Have. Mercy.

And when we got home, and then Hank got home, he took one look at his disheveled wife and asked how the grocery store was. All I could do was whisper something about really needing a bath, and he quickly took over the cutting-up-pizza-pieces chore and swooped in to the rescue.

I reached for some $10 bath salts and a loofah that I shoved into that grocery cart earlier with tail tucked between my legs and slinked away, locked the bathroom door, and hoped to God that the packaging promises of detox and make-it-all-better worked within that 30-minute timeframe it said it would.

It did a pretty good job. I still felt a little raw but mostly regrouped. But whew-eeee am I ever glad that days like this, and the battle that ensued, are not very many. Terrible twos, here we are.

Speaking of, I’m preparing for a little birthday party happening soon. Hank’s teaching him how to say, “I’m two.”

I sure hope he lives to see the day.

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Lucky for me, it’s gonna be all about a certain emergency responder kind of truck. Hint hint. And it might be coming to our house. Wink wink.

Day over. I’m tagging out. No more Eeyore from this ol’ girl. Tomorrow, I welcome the thought of you and can’t wait to meet you. I’m sure we will be fast friends, you and me. And littlest child of mine? I will love you tenderly and entirely and completely and we will start anew. I might have to dream up some new wonderful pseudo name for you to embody that still embraces you and your vivacious temperament.

Anyone wanna help out with that one?

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