The Language of Mom

Little Dude has been sick.  Not sick with an ear infection, because the tubes fixed those.  In hindsite (with its infuriating 20/20-ness), I almost would have preferred an ear infection to this.  He's had a virus which made him spike the highest fever he's ever had.  Which, in turn, made his parents spike the most parenting anxiety they've ever had.  Records are being shattered left and right in our household.

On the lovely Presidents Day that dawned on Monday, I was looking forward to a fun day of relaxed adventures with Jack.  (What is a relaxed adventure with a baby, you say?  A trip to TJ Maxx, complete with a latte, animal crackers and a sippy cup. But, I digress.)  My hopes were sort of blown by his illness.  Don't get me wrong, I don't care.  Not one little, tiny bit.  But it's sad when Jack is sick.  He's sad.  His twinkling Irish eyes are flat because he feels icky.  It brings my heart to my throat.

Anyway, sick Jack = cranky Jack.  But errand Jack usually = happy Jack.  So, in a display of true ingenuity and fortitude, I decided to take Jack to Costco before our appointment with the pediatrician.  I thought this made perfect sense.  He likes Costco.  I needed various things, all non-perishable.  And it got us out of the house and moving.  Off we went.

At first, he was happy.  Or, at least, not crying and cranky. Because I will be the first to admit that this is the fakest baby smile I've ever seen.  How about you?

No, really.  I feel great and love being surrounded by bulk groceries.

I scurried around Costco, buying my paper towels and olive oil and such, all the while, feeling pretty smug that I was nailing this "get things done" thing.  After checking out, I decided to indulge in one of my favorite things: a piece of Costco cheese pizza.  If' you've never had it, don't judge.  It's dee-licious.  And it's cheap.  I think a slice and a soda is like $2.20?  It's ridiculous.  So, I am standing there with Jack and my overloaded cart of non-perishables, right on schedule, having a quick bite of lunch.  Win, win, win, mom.  And then I noticed Jack, watching me with baby laser-like focus.

I thought, "Oh, goodness.  I should let him try pizza!"  So, I blithely gave him a bit of bready goodness to munch on.  And then, everything changed.

His eyes lit up.  The pizza disappeared.  Little feet started kicking with enthusiasm.  In effect, a black hole had opened in my child's stomach.  The only solution was MORE CHEESE PIZZA.  He started wiggling and nomming with his mouth and doing all of the things a baby can do to indicate that HE WANTED MORE.

Okay, so I fed him a few more bites.  This was cute!  And going well!  Until I realized, that is, that I was running out of pizza.  I had so eagerly eaten my piece of pizza to stay on schedule that, uh, I didn't have any more.

My cart was loaded with goods and a baby on top.  That makes it heavy and hard to steer.  I had greasy pizza fingers.  I also have a post-surgery shoe thing on my right foot which makes me a little slower and less agile than usual.  Jack had a black hole for a stomach.  Sauntering back to the food line seemed an impossibility. What the hell was I going to do?

I contemplated it until I really was out of pizza, at which time, I decided that I was desperate.  I looked around, wishing that a friend or angel or pizza delivery person would appear out of thin air to save me.   I saw a cool-looking mom and her five year old son meandering over to the food line.  Bingo.

And then, I really, truly, did this:  I pulled a ten out of my wallet and pha-lumped over with my post-foot surgery boot (oh, that really adds to the mental picture, doesn't it?).  I thrust the bill at the mom and said, "I need you to do me a favor.  I need you to buy me a piece of cheese pizza."  I motioned to Jack, who was quickly turning irate for lack of bread and cheese and my attention about twenty feet away.  (Maybe thirty feet.)  I looked at her imploringly, hoping that my eyes conveyed the details and the urgency of the situation.

"Here."  I gave her the money. She nodded resolutely.  She understood.  Oh, thank God.  She spoke the Language of Mom. I pha-lumphed back to my baby and attempted to appease him.

A few short moments later, the five year old came over and announced to me, "WE GOT YOUR PIZZA!"

I smiled and said, "Thank you!  You know, moms need a hand sometimes."

His mom appeared, like a pizza angel, and handed me the pizza and my change.  I smiled at her gratefully and said, "Thank you.  Thank you so much."

And like that, she was gone.

And we had pizza.

To the mom who bought my pizza, thank you.  To all the moms who speak The Language, rock on.

Never underestimate the power of cheese.

Heather