Motherhood is Sweeter with a Dash of Salt
As I’ve mentioned before, I never believed in gender differences. It was totally “Nurture” that caused little girls to hold baby dolls and boys to have bats, and it was societal pressure that told little boys to be tough and little girls to be sweet. Girls wear pink because of BIAS and boys wear blue because of GENDER CONFORMISM. Not my babies. Never.
Except my babies? ALWAYS. Continue reading “Why I Believe in Gender Stereotypes (Kind Of)”
For a first time Mom, I felt incredibly prepared when my son was born. I had 17 nieces and nephews and had been around kids a LOT. I was ready to change diapers. I wasn’t afraid of the dreaded first cold. I knew all the first aid and CPR you could want. I was prepared. And then the kids showed up and I learned all the things I hadn’t learned.
You probably haven’t learned all the things either. Add these to your to-do list.
Okay, I’m not a complete athletic disaster. I can throw a ball. But it’s actually WAY harder to throw a ball to a three year old than to another able bodied adult. You have to somehow throw it really slow. And make sure to avoid hitting them in the face. Because they won’t just catch the ball if it’s about to hit them. They’ll wait, let it hit them, and then freak out about it. And then make you throw it again and again until your arm falls off.
Before I was a Mom I’m not sure I’d ever drawn a rhinoceros. Or a “water dinosaur.” I know I didn’t draw the animals/monsters/creatures that my children imagine – and then request for me to draw. To their exact, but undescribed, specifications. But I do know that a lot of the time my drawings are not up to my children’s standards. I should have spent more of my first pregnancy in an avant garde art class taught by opinionated toddlers. If they have one of these in your area, it will be worth every penny.
When we were house shopping, I did not walk through the house listening for squeaky floorboards. FATAL mistake. Because there’s a board in my son’s room that has almost destroyed me. After spending countless hours lying on his floor praying he’ll fall asleep, the last thing I want to do is wake him up stepping on that board. Squeaky doors? I’m just going to take them all of their hinges. Or go to some sort of cat burglar crash course in how to be more sneaky.
4. How to Remove Objects from a Nose
Maybe you think this is covered under basic first aid, but not so, my friends. There are actual techniques for this sort of thing. For example, do not put any kind of finger or tool up there. Is it close enough to the nostril that you can pinch above it and push it out? Or should you try to blow it out like in that viral video that’s been going around (doctors say no, by the way, so THANKS FOR NOTHING VIRAL VIDEO)? Or do you have to go to freaking urgent care over this?? No one prepared us for A.) That level of decision making. B.) That kind of medical know-how.
5. Tetris Level Packing Skills
No one told me that I should have been spending WAY more time playing Tetris in preparation for parenthood. From packing a diaper bag, to packing my car for a day trip, to packing my daughter’s backpack on show and tell today (which is much more complicated than one would originally believe, I assure you), I use way more spatial awareness on the daily than I ever imagined I would.
6. Emotional Awareness of Others, Bordering on Psychic Ability
In the thirteen seconds it takes from when my daughter first appears in the dismissal line to when her teacher hands her over at the gate, I have to decide what kind of mood she is in and how to react appropriately. Will a big hug make her push me or melt her like a popsicle? Should I dare ask how school went? Does she want to walk or should I prepare for a battle about whether or not I am going to carry her to the car? It seems like an impossible task, one I am certainly untrained for. But I gotta say…for an impossible task, I’m getting pretty darn good at it.
7. How to Put Gloves on a Child
Ooooohhhhh, you think this is easy? That’s cute. Because guess what? Kids can’t move one finger at a time. And eight of their little fingers fit into one glove finger. So you sit there like a rational adult saying “Move this finger, no pull this one one, okay put the big one back in, no not that one, the other one, wait, now we’re back how we started!,” before you realize that you are fighting a losing battle. Better to take your chances with frostbite and save your sanity.
What other skills do you wish they’d told you that you’d need as a parent?
NO! Not my biological clock!! I’ve had three kids since 2013 and would very much like a break! No, unfortunately I’m counting down to something absolutely terrifying. I have nine years – or 8 years, 8 months and 21 days to be exact – until I get my first….teenager.
See, my kids drive my crazy, but they’re still pretty freaking cute. And they’re FUNNY. And they are so incredibly charming. And they make me smile for days. They are beautiful when they sleep and no matter how much we push each other’s buttons, at the end of the day they LOVE their Mama, unconditionally and, maybe more importantly right now, unembarrassedly.
Look, they’re not perfect. It’s taken me nine minutes to write this tiny bit because I had to referee two fights, get on my son’s case about throwing toys at the baby’s head and play three games of tic tac toe so that they’d leave me alone for a second. Also this and this and this.
But teenagers…..that’s a whole different thing.
We spent a few days with four teenagers on our cabin trip this summer and their apathy made me want to scream. The way they sat with each other, but completely ignoring each other, with their ear buds in FOR FOUR DAYS STRAIGHT made me stare at them with utter confusion. I felt like I was eight hundred years old when I heard the words, “Did you BUY that shirt with that many holes in it on purpose?,” just FLY out of my mouth before I could stop it. I quickly tried to turn it into a joke, like “Ha, kidding! I’m a cool Aunt that would never actual say something like that! I’m not your Grandma! She’s the worst!” But jeez, seriously! There were holes! Everywhere!! And I could see her BRA through it!
But what pushed me straight over the edge and broke my heart was the way the brother and sister seemed completely and totally disgusted with each other. They’re 15 months part, a few months closer than my oldest two, and I have to assume that once upon the time they were enamored with each other like mine are. As much as mine fight over toys and torment each other by putting their feet on the other one, they are also self-proclaimed best friends. They love each other and aren’t afraid to show it. My son, who will one day be too cool to even hear this story, regularly walks up to his sister, offers her his hand and asks her to dance. Like WALTZ. While he sings “Beauty and the Beast.” It’s the sweetest thing I could ever even imagine my kids doing, and it happens almost every day. So to imagine a world where these two will seem to hate each other is more than I’m prepared to handle.
But it’s coming. Those teen years.
And I don’t know what I’m supposed to do to prepare. Is there anything I can do to stop this impending doom? Do I just accept that they’ll be apathetic and think I’m a loser and will have their eyes permanently set to “Roll”? I don’t know…I know I’m not on Team Friend, that I want to stay firmly in the Parent position, so I can accept a certain amount of “My Mom is SO out of touch” vibes heading my way, I’ve accepted that. But the rest of the stuff? I don’t know…the countdown is on though. And if the next 9-ish years go anywhere near as fast as the first four, I’m in trouble.
Welcome to the second installment of The Salty Mamas Book Club! If there’s one thing that you take away from our latest book, it should probably be the Renegade Golden Rule:
It’s Okay if it’s not hurting people or property.
Initially, this had me a little like, “Whoa. Then what ARE the rules??” But the more I read the more I realized it wasn’t about chaos and a complete lack of structure. There’s still discipline. There’s still order. I’m still the parent. And that’s when I decided I could really get behind this….So here are some highlights of what we loved – and what we didn’t.
Kids Need Conflict
As a teacher of young children, you can imagine the amount of tattling I dealt with. “She hit me!” “He’s cutting!” “They said I can’t play!” And time and time again, my response was the same- “What did you tell them?” Because I’m not going to help you fight a battle you haven’t even tried to solve yourself.
So you can also probably imagine my delight when I found that “It’s OK Not to Share” has a chapter on the importance of conflict in kids’ daily lives. They are going to have problems with other kids and, sometimes, even with adults. Sure, we could rush in and solve the problems for them, which frankly just seems soooo much easier sometimes. But what if we gave them the tools to resolve conflicts on their own? The author recommends that we teach kids to speak up for themselves, to use strong voices to set boundaries, and that they are in charge of themselves. And if they can’t do it on their own? That’s where the adult steps in as a negotiator, helping the kids to solve the problems for themselves.
“I Hate You!” Is Nothing Personal/Go Ahead and Let Him Hate the Baby
I remember the first time Lila told me she hated me. I had just made her leave a toy she very much wanted behind at a friend’s house, because she threw a HORRIFIC tantrum about it. She was absolutely, ridiculously furious, and those big words just spilled right out of her tiny little body. She looked vaguely terrified of herself, like she didn’t know what she would do next. I pulled the car over, pulled her out of her carseat, and gave her a giant hug. She collapsed into me and sobbed and we worked it out. So yes, I agree that there was nothing personal about her “I Hate You.”
However, I disagree with the author on one big point here- I don’t think that she should be allowed to tell me she hates me. I think the author kind of agrees with me on this one too, because a few chapters later, in “Go Ahead and Let Him Hate the Baby,” she states that the child should never say she doesn’t like the baby within earshot because it will hurt their feelings. What about MY feelings? I deserve to have my feelings protected to, and so no, I will not allow my kids to say they hate me. Even if it ISN’T personal.
It’s OK NOT to Share…
It’s the name of the book, so we better touch on the attention grabbing rule that has people going, “But…But…But!” Probably like most of you, when my child has something another child wants, the words, “Okay, finish up and give your friend a turn” just come tumbling out of my mouth. I definitely do it with my own kids. Heck, I literally wrote a whole blog post about how I mastered the art of taking turns! The words are mostly habit at this point, and to be honest, a little bit courtesy to appease the other parent as much as the child. “See? My kid isn’t a toy hog!” But what if my child was in the middle of some really creative play? What happens to my child when I end that before he’s ready? I’m pretty hardcore on team play. I love watching my son and daughter use their imagination in incredibly inventive ways – ways that I certainly don’t want to stunt.
I really enjoy the way this book has you “Take Off Your Adult Lenses” to see things as the children see them. This chapter talks about how “interrupting play – and instantly rewarding the other child – doesn’t benefit either child.” And that “young children aren’t ready to share, they’re ready to take turns.” So it’s not about encouraging your child to be selfish, but rather to communicate when they’re done with a toy and to then be courteous. We’ve implemented it around here, and I’m digging it BIGtime.
We’re Not All Friends Here/Hang Up a “No Girls” Sign
Ahhhhhh, why didn’t I read this book years ago? I can only imagine all the anguish and stress I could have saved myself, agonizing over why Lila was excluding kids and refusing to play with the male friends she had played with just last week. It’s not that I would have allowed her to be unkind, but I wouldn’t have spent months crying and reading “Little Girls Can Be Mean” and considering taking her to a psychologist to work on her mean girl behavior. Because she was three. There are lots of strategies in the book- again, like dealing with conflict and helping the kids find a way to work things out on their own- to help kids learn to play better together, but at the end of the day, there’s going to be squabbles, and that doesn’t mean my kid will be turning into Regina George anytime soon. Thank God.
Bombs, Guns and Bad Guys Allowed
This one was definitely the one that had me pushing back the most prior to reading. We have one water gun hiding somewhere in the garage, but other than that, we are a gun free house. We were those parents that made a conscious and very purposeful choice to “not keep guns in the home.” I was very skeptical that this book could do anything to sway me. So, of course, I changed my mind and told Cole he could play with guns.
Cole is obsessed with all things superhero. He loves to wear a cape. He rescues his sisters. And yes he was turning really ordinary things into guns. The strangest was the stand from the cleaning set. The mop, broom, and dustpan were thrown aside and a gun was born. I was trying to fight it. And maybe it’s just that the book let me stop fighting it. Because it helped me understand that Cole has very few opportunities in his life to be a hero. He gets things wrong, a lot. He’s always being corrected and having to learn things and all the scolding. But when he puts on his costume and grabs his “shooter” he’s a strong, powerful, good guy. And it’s fantasy. He gets that it’s not real and he’s four. I’m thirty four and should be able to figure that out as well. The book points out that children playing parents use dolls, pirates use swords (which we don’t seem to have a problem with), chefs have pots and pans and fake food, so good guys and bad guys need props too.
Furtermore, there are lots of great tips for how to ease into gun-play if you have a knee jerk reaction (like I did!). Plus, and I found this super important, the author makes it clear that kids should ABSOLUTELY understand the difference between play guns and real guns and has some great pointers for discussing that as well!
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Did we pique your interest? Watch us discuss the book LIVE on FB, Monday, Sept 18 at 8:30pm PST!
Need to devour this book yourself? Snag a copy here and let us know what you think!
If you find yourself being one of those parents that’s maybe a tiny bit smug? (She says with authority, because, confession – she’s been there) You’re in luck. I have the cure for you! It’s one simple step. Ready for this:
Have another kid.
That’s it. If that still doesn’t work. Try this:
Repeat step 1.
See, once upon a time, my husband and I thought we had it figured out. We had this sweet, perfect little baby that did miraculous things like sleep through the night, happily took a pacifier, let everyone hold him, was content in the Ergo, delighted at trying all
my homemade purees, and was just SO. DAMN. EASYGOING. People would somewhat jokingly ask, “What’s your secret?” Chad, taking this very seriously would start talking about routines and the importance of establishing good habits young. If I was within earshot I would launch myself into the conversation shouting, “LUCKY! We got very, very lucky, we did NOTHING, he’s magical!”
See before Cole was born, I had seventeen nieces and nephews. And I’d spent a LOT of time around them all. I knew their tricks. And I KNEW that babies were born with a baseline. They were good sleepers or they weren’t. They took pacifiers or they didn’t. They ate lots of foods or they didn’t. And YES, what you did as a parent could move them up a notch or two from their baseline, but you couldn’t totally change a kid that hated sleep and got up for the day at 4:45 into one that fell asleep in 2.5 minutes, slept 12 hours and would be chill until you were good and ready to get up too.
More importantly, I knew that we wanted to have another, and that the Baby Gods will smite you good if you get too smug. So every time Chad boasted our parenting skills as the reason our baby was so good I feared for our fate.
Sure enough, Evie was born. And remember all those badass parenting skills? Well wouldn’t you know it, they did JACK for our baby girl. No routine in the world could get her to sleep through the night. She flatly refused bottles, meaning she was basically permanently attached to her exhausted Mom. She gagged on all purees and decided it 
would be more fun to only accept giant, chunky solids, stressing us out every step of the way. She wanted NO ONE except Mommy, not even her Father for a good while. Holding her was a process far more complicated than tying a MobyWrap or folding a fitted bed sheet. She was So. Damn. Particular. She wanted to be held by me, except when she wanted to sleep at which time she wanted to NOT be held, but she wanted to swing and she wanted a blanket on her face JUST so (but of course it had to be monitored and moved when she fell asleep) and on and on and on.
It was like starting completely from scratch. We accepted that we had no role in our son’s excellence as a baby and took no blame for our daughter being such a bitch challenge.
Then, we had our newest baby, Izzie. She’s so freaking pleasant. She wakes up with a smile on her face every day. She doesn’t sleep or take a bottle. She loves to be passed around and held. She freaks out within seconds of pooping demanding that she be changed immediately. She’ll snuggle into you and make you want 
a thousand babies because she’s so incredibly sweet. But everyday we’re learning more about her developing personality – often trying to ascribe her characteristics to either her big brother or big sister. But everyday is a reminder that she’s not just like Cole, or just like Evie, but is Izzie. A whole new person we have to figure out.
And just when we start to get cocky, she does something new to remind us that no matter how many kids we have, we still may have no freaking clue what we’re doing.
My daughter is a Taylor Swift fan. Like, a big fan.
She knows the words to pretty much every song on the 1989 album. She knows what each song is about. She loves her music videos and her “fashion” and her pretty hair and she especially loves to dance to her TS jams. She loved Taylor Swift in the way that only a four year old can.
And now she doesn’t.
I let her listen to the song “Look What You Made Me Do,” recently, thinking she would be excited to hear something from her favorite singer. I thought the beat was catchy, and she could dance to it and learn the words easily. I knew the video was dark, but I thought as long as I just played the song, the lyrics would be subtle enough to fly right over her head. I figured she’d be bopping and singing along in no time.
But you know what she said? “How come Taylor Swift got mean?”
If you haven’t heard it or seen the video yet, you’ll need to know that it is dark and edgy and the lyrics are full of bite. There are zombies and burglaries and car crashes. The song is a lot more bitter and a lot harder than anything she’s put out before. Clearly, she’s trying to reinvent herself. And look, it is not up to Taylor to be anything for anyone but herself. It is her life, and her brand, and she can do what she wants with it. That’s her right, and I stand by that. But Lila? Lila doesn’t.
And you know what? I’m kind of with Lila on this one. You don’t have to get edgier, and sexier, and darker with each album. It’s okay to be kind, and sweet, and keep your optimism no matter what life throws at you. I’m tired of artists feeling like they have to constantly evolve. You can have a truth and stick to it. You don’t need to keep up with the Joneses Katy Perrys. You don’t have to get mean in order to stay popular. In fact, it may just end up costing you, and some of your fans, a little something in return.
So we’ll keep rocking 1989 in the car, and we’ll keep Shaking it Off. But otherwise, I think we’re done here. Thanks for the fun, Taylor. It was good while it lasted.
My husband is tall. Like, really tall. Like, “hey, did you play college basketball?” levels tall.
And he’s smart. Like went to a super academically demanding college, and killed it. Like, when I told my parents he existed I said, “he’s a rocket scientist” – and I wasn’t lying.
These traits are both VERY celebrated in his family. On a trip back East during our engagement, there was a robust conversation about my ability to provide sufficiently tall grandchildren, what with my diminutive stature. I somewhat nervously defended myself, “I mean, I’m 5″8’….. that’s not exactly short?” My mother-in-law to be quickly rebuffed me, questioning my asserted height, as though perhaps I would lie about it to get in her good graces? There was only to be one solution. I was to be measured. Yes, she ACTUALLY measured me.
I passed.
Thankfully, there was no such test to measure if I would adequately assist in our children’s mental agility. I would like to think I would pass that as well, but I’m honest enough to admit I’d fail the math portion.
That being said, there are tall expectations set on my husband’s family, both literal and figurative. So it was with great joy when we dropped the bomb on them: we were aiming for average.
Personally, I’m tired – nay, downright exhausted – with the quest for excellence. Every child cannot be in the 99th percentile at their 6 month well baby check. It’s not possible. That’s just not how percentages work. Every child cannot be leaps and bounds above their peers academically. If they are? Great, if they’re not, that’s fine too. That HAS TO BE FINE TOO.
So when asked if our son was just “off the charts” in regards to his height, we would often reply, “nope, he’s right on track” sometimes even fudging the numbers to make him MORE average. The looks of horror on my in-laws faces were priceless. (However, they were quickly replaced with theories as to why he was so stunted, but that dear readers is a story for another time – spoiler alert: it’s my fault). A family of engineers, they would see him holding an object and making it work and excitedly exclaim, “oh, I see we’ve got another engineer on our hands!” They decided quickly and concisely that he would, obviously, attend his father’s alma mater and we’re debating what kind of an engineer he would be. My husband, again enjoying getting a rise out of his family, would say, “I don’t know, I think he’s more inclined to be an entertainer. Maybe in Vegas!” You’d think he said, “I don’t know, I think he’s more inclined to be a serial killer. Maybe one of those cannibal ones.”
And I get it, it’s back to school and there’s AP classes or “gifted classes” and Varsity Football or a starting spot on pop warner and someone’s getting first chair in the orchestra or the solo at the fall concert or will be the kid with the longest line in the Kindergarten production of Peter Rabbit and so many areas for our kids to have the opportunity to shine and excel. And we absolutely want to give our kids all of those opportunities and encourage them to be the very best version of themselves that they can be.
But we can’t all be 6′ 7″ (yes, that’s how tall my husband is) and we can’t all be engineers. And why should we all want to? Our kids won’t all play major league baseball or be famous actors or cure cancer. Most of them? Will just be average. Wonderfully, beautifully, average. That’s truly all I can aim for.
If you had told us before we had kids that one day we would be absolutely giddy over double naps, I’d probably had thought you were crazy. How exciting will it REALLY be? I mean, it’s two kids falling asleep at the same time. Probably happens all the time. Except when it turns out it’s about as rare as that solar eclipse everyone was freaking out over. Triple naps? Haley’s comet status. So yeah, we get WAY more excited than we ever thought we would.
Here are 25 other things that made us WAY happier than they should have:
What else are you WAY too happy about?
For one brief, shining, so-very-SoCal moment, my son was a model.
That’s right, an honest to goodness, has an agent and gets craft service, model.
And honestly? Best . MicroHustle. EVER.
It started when I submitted him casually for a job through an agency some friends of mine worked with. We were out of town for the shoot dates, so that particular job went nowhere, but it did lead to him signing with a reputable kids’ modeling agency. We were thrilled (I mean, that’s undeniable proof that your kid IS as cute as you think they are, am I right?), but no one was more thrilled than the grandparents. To be honest, I was almost embarrassed about it (did people think I was gonna be a stage mom now? Or that I was desperate? Or vain?) and I kind of tried to keep a lid on the whole thing. But the grandparents couldn’t help but tell everyone they saw anywhere that their grandson was a model before he had so much as snapped a picture.
I’m not gonna lie, getting started was a total nightmare. The agency we worked with was great, and SO helpful, but the mountain of paperwork was unreal. He needed a copy of his birth certificate and social security card (he was only three months old, so these had to be procured ahead of schedule). He needed a work permit, and headshots, and bank accounts and a special Coogan account (so a portion of his earnings could be held in trust for when he is an adult, in accordance with California law). But FINALLY, a few weeks later, he was ready to work.
Taking him to his first photoshoot in La Jolla was just this side of hysterical. There was a gorgeous home, a million snacks, and a fake mommy and daddy for him to shoot with. He had an onset “teacher” and an onset nurse who made sure his every need was attended to. He wore a freaking Burberry onesie that probably cost more than he made for shooting that day, and definitely cost more than the outfit I was wearing. He shot for all of 15 minutes, and we were off. It felt like the coolest little mommy-son adventure, he made some money for his college fund, and, honestly, he was none the wiser.
But by far our most lucrative “job” was for a prominent diaper company. And since babies shoot best with their actual mommies, I got hired too. You heard me right- I am a paid model. You can be impressed now. Okay, you may not be impressed, but I was sure impressed with myself. The set teachers held and loved on my baby while I got full hair, makeup, and wardrobe done. Y’all. It was basically a vacation. We once again shot for twenty minutes, I got a free Diet Coke, and we were on our way with a VERY decent paycheck in our back pocket. I quickly decided we would be doing this forever and all time.
And then, a few months and a few jobs later, the BAD SHOOT happened. Abe was ten months old, and was supposed to crawl towards a toy with a look of joy on his face. Except Abe was not joyful. And he would not crawl towards that toy. He wanted the camera, the lights, the lantern in the background. He wanted to crawl fast, or stand up, or shake the toy like a polaroid picture. Anything but what he was supposed to do. And honestly? I got PISSED. These people were counting on him, had PAID him to be there, and he just wasn’t compliant. I turned into the anxious mom, the one who’s like, “He’s never usually like this” (Side note: he is), the one who’s like “I swear he can do it, just give him another chance.” They didn’t, and he didn’t, and I left there disappointed and even a little angry.
And that was enough for me, and so I called it. I know it was just one shoot. I know this was the opportunity of a lifetime. I know that this was the best MicroHustle I could have hoped to find. And I still walked away. Some parents can keep that good attitude, know that kids will be kids, and shake it off and try again next time. THAT is who should be pursuing this. They’re in it for all the right reasons. But me? I can’t do it. And so WE couldn’t do it
Every once in a while, pictures from one of Abram’s few photoshoots will pop up on Facebook or the internet, and I get so wistful thinking of those one-on-one adventures we used to go on. And frankly, I think of the checks we used to deposit into his savings account (I mean, let’s not pretend that isn’t why we were doing it). But then I remind myself of the monster I could quickly have become, and I come to peace with my decision.
The grandparents however? That’s a different story.
Read all that and still interested in getting your child started in the modeling industry? We don’t blame you. We were too! Read all about the steps to getting started here.
Apparently I was feeling brave. Apparently I was feeling confident. Apparently I was a fool.
Because for some reason, I thought it was a good idea to load up my kids and go to the grocery store. But not just any grocery store, Trader Joes. Now, let me be clear. I LOVE Trader Joe’s. If you don’t have on near you it’s a wonderful neighborhood grocery store with amazing food and drink from around the globe and around the corner. When my kids were little – wait, they’re still little, but like, really little, cart bound “little” – TJ’s was the best. We’d walk into the store and there was always a beautiful buffet of bananas welcoming us. We’d toss a half dozen or so in the cart and then I’d hand each of my kids one. I mean, I always paid for the bananas later, but I think the produce lady at Ralph’s doesn’t trust that I’m actually going to pay….No such problem at Trader Joe’s. No one there threw us shade for sampling the product as we strolled through the produce section.
The banana usually lasted through produce and fresh meat, and then we rounded the corner and it was time to start looking for the Bixby Beagle. Now, I won’t tell you how long it took me to realize that the Bixby Beagle isn’t a fixture at all locations, despite it being named after my neighborhood, so I don’t know what the dog is called where you live – or if it even IS a dog – because I just learned it could be any animal, but I love that dog. Because it gives my kids something to DO for the next little bit. As I meander through the frozen foods, my kids have their eyes peeled for that beagle. Because when we find it? They get a lollipop! A nice fresh, not-covered-in-lint-because-I-found-it-at-the-bottom-of-my-purse-while-hunting-for-something-to-calm-the-storm-brewing-in-my-cart lollipop.
We can usually make the lolly last until checkout at which point my kids get to try to entertain the checker, who then HANDS THEM A MILLION STICKERS. It’s like Willy Wonka’s factory over here when they start unraveling the giant roll of seasonal stickers. Sometimes, they’re even scratch ‘n’ sniff. My kids think every day is Christmas at Trader Joe’s.
But then my kids got older. And they got wise to the fact that there are ADORABLE tiny little carts that are just their size! First the bananas, then the lollipops, then stickers – clearly Trader Joe’s was catering to their VERY specific needs. So it should have come as no surprise to me when Cole told me that “Uncle Robert” got him his very own cart too! This will teach me to pretend that the manager of the grocery store is related to us.
For a while, things were okay. Cole was the biggest and somehow Evie just accepted that she still had to ride in the cart and Cole was allowed to push his own. And he did surprisingly well. He took his new responsibility seriously and I think he could smell the fear on me and knew he was one bruised shin away from having his rights revoked.
Then I started getting wise. I started getting organized. And for the love of God I started going to the store while Cole was in preschool. Going to a store with a 2 year old and a baby only feels easy when you’re used to having a 4 year old there too. I had gotten so used to the chaos of all three that two felt like a breeze! It was like old times! And that’s when you start to make mistakes. You get sloppy. You decide to let the two year old give this whole tiny cart thing a try. You think this is your new normal, not remembering that there will come a time when you will have to go to the store again with all three kids, but by then, it’s too late. By then, you’ve created monsters.
Which is how I ended up as the caboose in a crazy choo choo train of tiny cart insanity. To those we ran down, I apologize. To those that looked at me like I’m crazy, yeah, you’re probably right. To those that muttered something under your breath like I couldn’t hear you, I could. I’m not even saying I disagree with what you said, but I heard you bitches, okay? To those that seemed entertained by us, thank you. And to those that gave me a look of, “Hell yeah, mama, you got this!,” a huge, huge, thank you. It was because of you that we made it. Because of you that I didn’t give up in the pasta aisle, just lay down on the floor and cry, and just GIVE. UP.
Instead we pushed on. Ate a banana. Found the beagle. Got our lollipops. Grabbed some stickers for the road. And got the F OUT OF TRADER JOES. 
