Trailer mom
I am somewhat of a traitor in the "mom wars," being that I work less than 40 hours a week. There is one day a week in particular where I stay home and do the things "SAHMs" do, which generally involve trips to the grocery store, hoisting the baby in and out of a car seat while she throws fish cracker shrapnel, and cleaning the kitchen 1,000 times. For those of you who may never know the bon-bon eating glories of stay at home momitude, I thought I would share some highlights of today:
1) Leave for grocery store after 30 minutes of canvassing house for baby shoes. Car suddenly swarmed by small children holding illegible, pencil-written signs that, I glean from context, indicate that they are having an impromptu, mid-week yard sale on our bleak, empty suburban street, consisting of three of their broken toys on the sidewalk in front of their house. Guilt stabs heart like shish kebab skewers while I drive on.
2) Schlep around to two different grocery stores, watching grocery bills reach dizzying, airless altitudes since we never eat out.
3) Tetris groceries into crammed, disorganized cabinets in fridge with one hand while feeding mozzarella sticks to baby with other hand.
4) Hand baby locked cell phone to amuse herself while I clean kitchen for 1001th time. Baby begins animated babbling conversation, holding phone up to her ear comically, sort of behind her ear, the way she tends to do: "Bleepp? Greba mama. Baba? Nana." She waddles over to me and holds out the phone. "For me?" I say. "Hello?" Her favorite game. Except, there is a voice. Yes, I think you know the one. "911, what's your emergency?" "Oh crap, I am so sorry," I say, "my baby had the phone..." "Yes," the operator says sarcastically. "She was having quite a little chat with me." Oops.
5) Overcome with guilt over children's yard sale, I slap sunscreen on the baby, and scrounge around the house for dollar bills, hats, garage door openers, and the other 100 required items for leaving the house with a baby in tow. When we arrive at the sale, there is but a lone empty chair, and some sad chalk drawings on the sidewalk. I look across the yard. Two glum little children press their noses against the living room window.
They'd given up.
1) Leave for grocery store after 30 minutes of canvassing house for baby shoes. Car suddenly swarmed by small children holding illegible, pencil-written signs that, I glean from context, indicate that they are having an impromptu, mid-week yard sale on our bleak, empty suburban street, consisting of three of their broken toys on the sidewalk in front of their house. Guilt stabs heart like shish kebab skewers while I drive on.
2) Schlep around to two different grocery stores, watching grocery bills reach dizzying, airless altitudes since we never eat out.
3) Tetris groceries into crammed, disorganized cabinets in fridge with one hand while feeding mozzarella sticks to baby with other hand.
4) Hand baby locked cell phone to amuse herself while I clean kitchen for 1001th time. Baby begins animated babbling conversation, holding phone up to her ear comically, sort of behind her ear, the way she tends to do: "Bleepp? Greba mama. Baba? Nana." She waddles over to me and holds out the phone. "For me?" I say. "Hello?" Her favorite game. Except, there is a voice. Yes, I think you know the one. "911, what's your emergency?" "Oh crap, I am so sorry," I say, "my baby had the phone..." "Yes," the operator says sarcastically. "She was having quite a little chat with me." Oops.
5) Overcome with guilt over children's yard sale, I slap sunscreen on the baby, and scrounge around the house for dollar bills, hats, garage door openers, and the other 100 required items for leaving the house with a baby in tow. When we arrive at the sale, there is but a lone empty chair, and some sad chalk drawings on the sidewalk. I look across the yard. Two glum little children press their noses against the living room window.
They'd given up.
Labels: Momblog
posted by Strikethru at
1:57 PM
3 Comments:
The saddest part of this is that the glum children were selling three broken toys...and a 1928 Underwood portable typewriter.
That baby is going to save your life one day, with her mad 911-dialing skillz.
In my day, we had "dial-a-story" or "pop-corn" ("at the tone, the time will be six fifty-seven and twenty seconds. beep. crackle. at the tone...")
kids these days have no idea how good they have it being able to just pick up the phone and get a real live person on the other end.
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