Saturday, January 1, 2011

The Same Demons That Prick My Ass With Pitchforks Also Won’t Let Me Shop

Now that I stay at home, I no longer have to make a mad-dash to the mall during my lunch break to buy the kids’ clothes.

Instead I get to go to the mall dragging two screaming children around, while I desperately try to grab at whatever looks about their size as quick as possible, so we can leave without causing the other patrons permanent psychological damage.

I try to look put-together. Really, I do. I’ll shower and style my hair. I’ll even wear makeup. But by the time I walk into the store I end up looking like I’ve been blown in by a tornado.

I don’t think I’m in Kansas anymore....

I always look windswept, even if it’s not windy. Somehow, even if I left the house with clean clothes, I arrive with snot, or spit-up or some other fluid on my jeans.

I walk around the store in a state of confusion, since I never know where anything is kept. I fall down escalators. I’ve paid for my purchases and then left the bags sitting on the cashier’s stand more than once, AT THE SAME STORE.

Yet every time I walk into Gymboree, or Baby Gap, or, heck, Target, I encounter mothers wearing clothes that are clean and stylish. Their hair is glossy. They can still wear high-heel boots while shopping. Their kids are nowhere to be seen, but when they’re around they’re quiet and complacent and sort of fade into the background. Mine are usually screaming. One may have fallen out of the cart. WHO KNOWS?

So, how do all these put-together moms stay...put-together? Is there some sort of elixer I’m not aware of? It can’t be booze. I’ve tried.

Maybe their kids are in pre-school or grade school, so they don’t puke on their mothers every day, and their mothers get to take uninterrupted showers?

My personal demons mock, “The only problem is you. If you tried harder, you’d be put-together, and beautiful, and no one would ever puke on you.” These demons also stab me in the ass with tiny pitchforks, but that’s the least of my worries right now.

But it can’t be just me. There has to be other mothers of preschoolers and toddlers and babies walking around with frizzy hair and wearing puke.

I just wish I knew where they were, so we could go shopping together.