Don’t Touch the Fruit

It’s Monday. My tire exploded on the way home from work.

The contractor informed me he’d be back tomorrow for just. one. more. check.

And then, THEN I had to grocery shop for a week with three of four kids in tow. And they were not…ahem…well behaved.

In fact, I was that on-the-edge mom who started with threats through gritted teeth and when that didn’t work I became the mom everyone averts their eyes from as they lose their gobstopping mind in the produce aisle.

I saiiiiiiiid donnnnnnt toucccccch theeeeee fruitttttt.

We get to the car. I strap them into car seats, unload the cart, contemplate running, decide I won’t get far in 5″ heels, reluctantly get in the van, and I just sit.

I sit in stillness, thanking god for minivans with TV’s, for five seconds of quiet, and it’s at that very moment that my daughter thinks it’s a good idea to ask me, “mom, why are we like, just sitting here?”

Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps because I’m trying to evaluate where I went wrong in life OR MAYBE, JUST MAYBE I’m trying to compose myself so you all make it to tomorrow.

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