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I took the kids with me to the grocery store today, not by choice but by necessity. 
If I had attempted to serve them what was left in the cupboard—namely artichoke hearts and black olives—they might have tried to bury me in the backyard. Winter break is interminable.
Before we went, I tried to prepare myself and them. I carefully wrote out a shopping list (by aisle, no less), made sure their little stomachs were full (we went directly after lunch), and spoke with each of them about the difference between “helpful” and “unhelpful” behavior (Putting items Mommy hands you into the cart = Helpful. Attempting to lie down on the bottom rack of the cart = Unhelpful.).
Not that any of this ultimately mattered.
Kid Dialogue:
“I’m hungry!”
“EEEK!”
“But he scared me!”
“I want this!”
“But I WANT THIS!”
“OW! Mom! Liam just ran over my leg!”
“Can we have gummies?”
“But everybody else has these in their lunch!”
“How come YOU always get to pick out what WE eat?”
“Ewww!”
“NO!”
“Stop it!”
“He’s doing it again!”
“I wanna see the lobsters.”
“But I’m still looking at the lobsters!”
**Sob**
“Ooops!”
“Mom! Look what he did!”
**Sob**
“THEN can I have a muffin?”
“How come HE always gets what he wants?”
“I hafta go to the bathroom.”
“We need gum!”
“More gum!”
“Oh, no! I dropped my quarter!”
“Mommy, you gotta go back!”
Mom Dialogue:
“But you just ate!”
“Please, put that back.”
“Stop sniffing the rotisserie chicken. Remember last time?”
“No.”
“Where did Henry go?”
“Say ‘excuse me’.”
“I’m sorry. Excuse us.”
“Try harder not to run into people.”
“Get back in the cart.”
“Don’t hang on the side of the cart.”
“Be careful of the eggs!”
“No.”
“Get back in the cart.”
“Just put it back.”
“No.”
“No!”
“NO!”
“Get out of the cart.”
“Please, guys, we’re almost done. Keep it together.”
I am sure I had more than a glint of crazy in my eyes by the time we reached the cashier.
And that was before I noticed there was no bagger.
Would I like wine with my whine? Why thank you, I would.
P.S. This is one of the funniest commercials out there, thanks to my friend, K, for sharing it:
The signs were there. Yet, I chose to ignore them. I was bound and determined to make things work.
This snowshoeing play-date was going to happen, damnit, and it was going to be FUN.
My first sign that not all was as it should be was when I woke up this morning feeling like an alien was trying to claw his way out of my pelvis—either through my lower back or straight out of my uterus.
My next signs came as I was picking up Henry from pre-school. He came right over to me when he saw me open the playground gate. He was quiet and his eyes looked a little glassy. While it might be typical for your child to be ecstatic to see you at pick-up, my boys have always wanted “one last (insert any activity here – slide, turn on the swing, race, etc)” before acknowledging that I am there to take them home.
Then, to top things off, as I was buckling our snowshoes, I noticed that mine didn’t quite fit. I hadn’t thought to try them on before taking them out for the first time this year. Never mind that they aren’t actually mine but rather, my husband’s. I must have been delusional to assume adult snowshoes would be one size fits all.
And yet, I pressed us on. “It’ll be fine,” I assured Henry, his friend and his friend’s mom.
But it was not.
The snow was crusty, not fluffy, and almost immediately, we were faced with a steep incline. Henry began whining. I whispered encouraging words.
Did I mention that this was a first play-date? You know, the slightly awkward, put-your-best-foot-forward-and-test-the-waters get-together between parents and their kids? The one where you and your child attempt to make a good impression? Or, in my case, where I try to act—and to get my child to act—normally enough so that the other parent doesn’t leave believing we are Satan and her spawn?
Alas, it was not to be.
The whining escalated to whimpering which converted to crying. I ended up carrying him up and then down the hill while Henry’s friend’s mom kindly carried my ill-fitting snowshoes. Total play time? Fifteen minutes.
Fifteen minutes of Hell.
And now my little cherub is asleep.
Who’s betting on whether we’ll get a second date? Not me.
There is three feet of snow on the roof and medium-sized icicles hang from the edge. The three-day forecast includes temperatures above freezing.
With a heavy sigh, I reach for the following:
Wool socks
Long underwear
Ski pants
Parka
Fleece hat
Insulated gloves
Boots
Snow shovel
Ladder
Oh, the joys of being at home during the day.
“Nora, I’m going out onto the roof. You know the drill, right?” I say, my hand on the doorknob.
“Yes!” she yells from inside the hastily constructed “fort” in our family room. “No! Wait!” She sticks her head out. “I forget. If you fall off, do I call 911 or am I supposed to check on you first?”
You’ve gotta really love Vermont to live here in the winter.
Periodically, I order the kids to do household chores but I don’t do it with any consistency. One day, I might tell them to put away the plethora of toys in the toy room (a.k.a. our basement); two weeks later, I might beg them to strip the sheets from their beds. Is it any wonder that they aren’t tidy?
Feeling grumpier than usual after our daily recitation of insults and injuries (a.k.a. family dinner conversation), I put Medium and Large to work clearing the counter and putting dishes into the dishwasher.
A little while later, passing through the kitchen, I overheard the following exchange:
“There are no monsters living in this house.”
“There are too, Nora. I’m telling you. Haven’t you heard them bumping around at night? I’ve met them. I know.” Liam’s voice rang with eye-witness authority.
“I don’t believe you.” Her shaking hands knocked one of the dinner plates against the faucet. “Whoops.”
“Believe it. They’re really scary. They have these big eyes and you know what else? Wh-what was that?” He spun around, pretending he heard something. Facing his sister, he lowered his voice and said, “They don’t like me talking about them.”
Nora froze, cup in hand. Her five years of experience with Liam’s practical jokes warred with the delicious possibility of living with an honest-to-goodness monster.
“I’ll tell you their names in case you run into them. They’re names are—and don’t blame me if you’re terrified,” he paused dramatically and then grinned, unable to keep up his charade. “Frank, Earl and Carl!”
Together, they laughed so hard they hardly made any noise.
She caught her breath first. “Frank!” she said. “Get to work!”
I do like to share! But sometimes, I don’t. Mom got this picture in the mail and then she hung it up on the big board in the kitchen. She thinks it’s funny. I don’t. It makes me mad!
I share stuff with my big brother and my sister and my friends at school. And I share with my baby cousins. But I don’t always want to.
Babies! Who needs them?
When I woke up today, Mom told me that G.B. (Gargantuan Baby) was coming over to play. She took out all the baby toys and put the gate around the stove. Ha! G.B. doesn’t know that fire is hot? I know that fire is hot.
Well, G.B. and his dad came over but then, G.B.’s dad left without G.B.! Mom said he was going to the mountain to play in the snow.
I want to go play in the snow but Mom won’t come outside with me. She says we have to watch the baby inside. Harumph!
But I get to watch TV and I do…until G.B. wrecks my train track. That makes me mad! I made that! I jump off the couch and lay down on top of my trains. “Mom!” I yell. “He’s messing up my train track!”
Mom tells me to be nice to the baby.
Stupid baby.
These are MY toys. Mine. My own.
Oh, fine. He can play with my trains. I’ll play with my airplane. It makes cool noises. 1, 2, 3, blast off!
Uh-oh. Here comes G.B. “No, G.B.! This is MINE!” I run away. He can only crawl. He can’t catch me. I hold my airplane up high, where he can’t reach.
“Henry?” Mom is calling. “Keep an eye on G.B. while I set up the pack and play.”
I stop running. That’s my pack and play.
Harumph.
Wait! Where is G.B. going? He’s moving towards…he’s trying to get…PIGGY! “NO!” I shout. I grab her and put her behind my back. She is safe, but he is crying. Wow. He’s loud. I cover my ears. Mom picks him up and takes him away.
I’m all alone. I feel bad. G.B.’s just a baby. He’s not a big boy like me. I peek into the living room. G.B. and Mom are reading a book about trucks.
That’s my Mom.
I walk over. “Mom, can I sit in your lap?”
She says yes and makes room for me. I look at G.B. out of the corner of my eye. This is alright. I guess. I like this book. Trucks are cool. G.B. squirms away from us.
I’m watching you, G.B. I see you.
Mom makes lunch. She feeds G.B. in a special chair with a tray. He is eating applesauce. I am eating spaghettios with meatballs. I smile at G.B. I make a funny face at him. He screeches. I wince. Mom says it’s OK, that it’s his way of laughing.
The applesauce dribbles off G.B.’s chin. He spits more of it out when he makes a raspberry noise. Hey! I like to make those noises too! I make one. G.B. laughs. It makes me feel good. I giggle.
But only a little.
OINKtales 
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