Lost my sh!t at Publix.

I woke up this morning to the sound of the peanut’s bedroom door opening. The paint on the door sticks to the paint on the frame and each morning it sounds quite similar to a shotgun blast when it opens. It jolts me awake faster than any cup of coffee I could possibly have brewing downstairs. Like every morning, I heard her feet shuffling down the carpeted hallway and the sound of Abby, our kitten, pouncing on her blanket as it’s trailing behind her. With one eye peaking open just a bit, I watched her heave her blanket and her Dora the Explorer doll up onto the bed, clumsily slide her mass of tangled blond hair out of her face with her hand and then shuffle back to her room for Abby Cadabby, Curious George, Baby Toby and Baby Mia.

I can gauge what type of day it’s going to be solely based on the immediate demands that are made by her when she discovers that I am, in fact, awake. My favorite moments are the ones where she wraps her arms around my neck and asks me what I dreamt about or moves my hair out of my face and tells me I’m her “best fren” and “I wike your hair, momma.” These times happen most often.

However, today I was hit with a critical Cocoa Puff interrogation which I bombed, followed by a hand over my mouth because my breath was “ginky”. I tried to redeem myself with an offer of pancakes for breakfast only to be caught off guard by a request for a “bamana”, which “WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU DON’T HAVE BAMANAS? I WANT BAMANAS, MOMMA. PLEASE, I WANT BAMANAS!”

Our day proceeded in this manner. A day in which my 2 year old, a child whom I love fiercely, showed me in every possible way that I was not meeting her expectations in any area and I should be seeking employment elsewhere. I threw in a few loads of laundry, we did some crafts and then we headed out to Publix to grab some snacks for our trip to Busch Gardens. I decided it would be ok to prolong nap time for a bit.

At 20, I had all kinds of advice for mothers. I was eager to impart my knowledge and wisdom to all of the parents I saw in the grocery stores whose kids were misbehaving. I made facebook statuses berating some of the things I witnessed in public places. I was shocked at the parents whose kids were screaming at them as they hurried down the aisle, tossing groceries in their cart and acting like they didn’t even hear them. “I’m never going to be that mom.” I would say to myself. “I’m going to do it right.” My intentions were not bad. I was youthful, naïve and obviously impervious to the weight of parenthood.  

A battle typically ensues when I try to tuck the peanut’s legs into the shopping cart. No words are said aloud, but there is a very clear, unspoken agreement that she is going to spread her feet as far apart as possible when it’s time to put them in the cart and that I am to accept it. To avoid this battle, I bypassed the cart today and asked her to be my big helper. She did great holding the green basket and trucking along beside me tossing in the items that I handed her. We had a great conversation about dolphins and sea turtles and how she doesn’t “wike corn dogs. Them’s nasty.” Then, it happened. I tried to avoid it. I steered her away from it and did my best to redirect her towards the fruit snacks but by that time, her eyes had locked onto it. At the end of the aisle sat an enormous display of inflated Spongebob Mylar balloons. When I informed her she wouldn’t be bringing one home with her after she asked me multiple times, she lost. her.  cool. With several other people in the aisle, my child ripped her hand out of mine, dropped the green basket on the ground furiously and threw herself backwards onto the cold tile in a full on tantrum. Fight or flight? Fight or flight? My mind raced. I decided on flight. I could feel the heat rise in my face as I glanced around to find a young couple staring at me in horror and a 21 year old Amy-type scoffing as I lifted my screaming, infuriated child by the armpits and tucked her under my arm like a tiny, fire-breathing football, leaving my basket behind me like a bad memory, its contents all over the floor. I could still feel the heat in my face and the unforgiving Florida sun was beating on us both as I stomped to the car and my squealing baby squirmed under my arm. I must have looked like a madwoman. I heaved my door open, put her in her seat, buckled her in and we took off on a silent ride home, embarrassed about how we had both behaved.

My purpose in writing this is to out loud, in front of all of you, give myself a break.. and give every mom a break that is reading this.. and a verbal fist shaking to all of the young Amy-types that feel compelled to share their novice opinions via nasty comments or scrunched eyebrows about something they have never experienced.

I promised myself that my house would always be clean when I grew up. Reality: I have dishes in my sink every night and my laundry will never be done. My child is clean. Our books are read. We have spent our night singing songs and making crafts.

 I promised I would never wear “mom jeans” or leave the house without mascara. Reality: My child is well-dressed and is a beautiful representation of what I feel is most important in my morning routine.

My child will never scream and cry in public. Reality: My child is learning boundaries. It’s an ugly job.

 I always said I will never yell at my child. Reality: My child needs to see I’m human and I make mistakes. She also needs to see what a truly humble apology looks like.

At 20 years old, I imagined I’d be married by now, driving a Scion and travelling to Europe on my summer vacations. My husband would be a CEO of a major corporation and our children would be flawless and lovely. I would wear floppy hats on the beach and drink margaritas while my kids buried each other lovingly in the sand and said kind words to each other and I would read political satire on my very fancy E-Reader as I sifted sand between my meticulously, pedicured toes.       

Instead, I’m watching endless hours of Team Umizoomi, painting tiny toenails, scooping kitty poop, changing garbage bags, paying bills, brushing through soft, bouncy curls, getting the best hugs around the neck, learning this little person, fixing barbies, and losing my sh!t at Publix. It’s not what I pictured, but it’s real and it’s mine. I’ll take it ;)