Jack and I went to the grocery store yesterday afternoon. We were out of dog food and milk and fruit and other things that we need for our survival as a family.
We are at that awkward stage where Jack is far too "grown up" to sit in the cart like a baby -- but far too distractable and headstrong to walk alongside the cart, particularly if I have a long list of pressing things to buy.
That means that The Plan is to get one of those monstrous carts that looks like a car and drives like an 18-wheeler, and yet, has a pathetically small basket for groceries. I brazenly promised Jack one, and then couldn't find one.
However, I did find a bright-eyed HEB employee who was probably 18 but looked 11 to me. I asked him if there were any car carts left, and he trotted off to the parking lot to find me one. I breathed a sigh of relief and told Jack to hold tight -- his chariot was coming.
As the 11 year old HEB employee drove the cart back to me, a momma interloper snagged him and asked for it. He politely explained that he was delivering it to someone else and that he was sorry. Phew again; Jack and I were saved.
On her way by with her two children, the momma interloper gave me stink eye. Happy Mother's Day, indeed.
For me, Mother's Day is like my birthday. I super duper mega love it. I feel special all day. I will happily be showered with flowers, cards, gifts and compliments. I will not turn them down. You can make me a martini. You can buy me dessert. Yes, please.
But, like on my birthday, I also realize that real life calls. I go to work on my birthday. It's OK.
I go to HEB on Mother's Day. And that's OK, too.
Because you know what? I would be sad if I didn't have Pablo and Lucy to buy dog food for; Durel to buy fruit for (he loves fruit, man), and Jack to buy milk for.
You know what I mean?
Hope someone needs you today.