No matter how much you adore your child and wouldn’t trade your mommy status for all the money in the world, there are still these “WTF” moments where you look around and wonder what in the world has happened to you. Today was a prime example of that.
Stella had her 3 month check up at her pediatrician’s. The visit went great. She’s thriving and continues to be in the 95th percentile for growth. She takes shots like a pro. When they gave her today’s, she didn’t even cry until they put on the band aid. She just doesn’t like to be fooled with. In part fueled by her new growth statistics, I called her “Meatloaf” grandmother1, and we agreed to meet at the outlet mall to try to find some fun kiddo clothes. So dazzled was I by the idea of new giant-sized footie outfits that it never occurred to me that the outlets would be a freaking zoo due to all the after-Christmas shoppers. It was awful. Nevertheless, we persevered and found a few things (damn the fashion industry for putting out summer dresses and bathing suits when it’s in the 30’s outside….damn them to hell).
I had the brilliant idea to find some cheap button-down blouses so that I could perhaps put away some of my slut-tops which allow easy boob access at work. Meatloaf and I made it into one grown up store when the cacking started. At that point, we aborted the mission and agreed to head home. By the time Stella’s butt hit her car seat, she was in full meltdown.
It would seem that 85% of the shoppers of Tanger outlet mall decided to leave the parking lot at 4:15 PM. The line to simply exit the property was a joke and it wasn’t moving. That didn’t help me soothe the savage Stella. After about 5 minutes of going absolutely nowhere, I pulled a frantic mommy move and just jammed the SUV into an off corner of a parking lot and attempted to calm her down. Next thing I realize, I’m sitting in the back of my own car with my boob out in the middle of the day feeding my kid. Of course, the good news is that by the time she finished nursing, she was semi-content, very sleepy, and the traffic had died. She cut up some getting back in her seat but drifted off the moment the tires hit I-10.
When we got home, I was rushing to unpack and sort everything from the outing while the baby slumbered. After putting the new little outfits in the laundry to be cleaned, I went to put my keys and sunglasses in my purse. They wouldn’t fit. Turns out I had a dirty diaper and a used barf cloth in there. I simply shrugged and tossed them out.
It’s funny. A year ago, I would have probably gagged over having a soiled diaper in my purse (not to mention the times they somehow stack up like really odd totem poles on my coffee table), thinking of it as some kind of maternal domestic blight. Now, just like having dried puke on your shoulder or your boob out in the back seat, it’s just natural and no big deal.
1 One day, Will’s mother and my mother were discussing what they would be called by the baby as she grew up. We seem to have settled on “Crispy” for my mother. Will’s mother made the (innocent) comment that “I don’t care if she calls me meatloaf,” and followed this with a generally lovely statement about just being glad to be a grandmother. I quickly pointed out that I could arrange that, meaning it as a joke at the time. Now, it seems very funny. We seriously need to come up with another grandmother name before Meatloaf sticks.