This Early Bird Got The Shaft

Posted by: , October 23, 2008 in 1:39 pm


Yesterday was one of those days.  You know the kind?  If I was not solely responsible for the well-being of my son I would have remained in bed.

You see, the day started off badly.  My best friend called me on Monday evening and asked if she could stop Tuesday morning.  She is my book mule for the Scholastic Book Club and I owe her some money for my October/November order.  Shhhhh!She is an early bird.  I am not.  So, we compromised and set our date for 11:00 AM.  I’m sure that was like scheduling it in the afternoon, but she was being gracious.  Monday night I set my alarm for 8:20 AM.  That way we would have enough time to leisurely enjoy our Blueberry Muffin Tops cereal and visit the Land of Sodor for a half hour.  We usually do home preschool in the morning, so we cut the lesson short and both took showers so we would be ready for Kristin’s visit. 

At 11:00 AM my phone rang.

“I can’t come over,” my frazzled bestie explained.  She had had her own hectic morning.  So, there we were.  Benjamin and I were fully dressed, fully showered and we had absolutely no reason to be.  So, being the disturbingly-organized soul I am, I moved forward with my usual Tuesday schedule.  Top priority—grocery shopping.

We set off to Wal-Mart—my new favorite grocery store.  You see, I discovered my register receipt from there equals about half what it does elsewhere.  Sure, my kid gets branded with a yellow smiley face the minute we walk in the door, but we’re saving a few bucks, right?  However, first I decided to stop by our church.  I use the term our loosely.  In fact, ever since a man walked up to us one Sunday and said, “Are you new?” followed by, “Or, are you Sometimers?” my distaste for organized religion has once again reared its ugly head (but we’ll leave that topic for another time).  I had books I wished to donate to the nursery.  We pulled up outside the church preschool and I hopped out o’ the mini van.  I rushed through the gale force autumn winds and slid open the rear passenger’s side door.  Benjamin jumped out and we rushed to the door.  We rang the doorbell and waited.  And waited.  So, seeing as how I was on God’s property, and in the presence of my four-year-old son, I chirped, “Oh well, let’s go around to the Church Office.”  We hopped back in the van, got buckled into place and as I raced out of the parking lot (letting my gas pedal do my swearing), Benjamin yelped, “Your speeding mom!”  We parked in the front of the church, both got unbuckled again and the wind promptly blew us into the Church Office—which was unoccupied.  After waiting for a few minutes I slapped a post-it note on my bag of board books that read:  Donation to the preschool. 

So much for trying to be a do-gooder, eh? 

Our next stop was a local thrift shop—to drop off more books.  Guess what?  Yep—they were not accepting book donations.  No wonder researchers claim our nation’s kids are behind—you can’t give a book away in this country! 

Finally we arrived at Wal-Mart—the land of bad acoustics, clerks who are permitted to sit down on the job and a mecca for people who enjoy verbally abusing their children in public.

Upon entering, Benjamin was tagged.  The perpetrator was a kindly, four-foot tall Latino man who smiled as he adhered the bright yellow smiley to the tip of my son’s finger.  So, there we were…schlepping through Wal-Mart.  Yellow smiley and all.  I looked like hell.  My hair was yanked up into a wind-blown ponytail, I was wearing a long-sleeved tee, an oversized cardigan, sneakers and jeans.  Poor Benjamin had a zit.  Yea, he’s four and he had a big ‘ol zit on his chin.  Not to mention, raw chapped lips.  We truly looked like stereotypical Wal-Mart shoppers.  Like we stepped off the set of My Name is Earl. 

And, while looking this way, who do I see?

The gossipy, judgmental parents of my first boyfriend.  Great.  So, like any self-respecting, strong-willed woman…I took a sharp left and escaped into the clothing department.  Finally, after procuring our groceries and making our way back home, Zitty McChapped Lips begged, “Mom, help me get my shoes off.”  “Hop up,” I said, pulling out a chair.  When I looked down at his little sneakers, they were pointing in opposite directions.  The poor thing had been wearing his shoes on the wrong feet.

We are not early birds. 

 

 


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