Tuesday September 3, 2013: Going Out With a Bang

Dear Babies, 

All it took was a quick run into Uncle Giuseppe’s to remember why I try to avoid grocery shopping with you guys at all costs: Oh yeah, it’s friggin’ torture. 

I either push the cart and fill it with food, shopping like a person, but with you two running like animals through the store. Or, I push the cart with you two controlled in it, like people, but with me shopping like an animal as I fill up bags dangling from my arms (because I’ve learned that choice number three, me pushing you and the food in the cart, simply is not an option–think trampling, eating, throwing…)

Just when I was about to tip over from the weight of all the filled up bags…

Just as I banged the cart into a stack of Toblerone’s sending them all crashing down…

Just as the demands for food turned into flat-out screams (BREAD! CHEESE!)…

Just as the stares were upon us…

The sweat visible on my brow…

The patience unable to be mustered…

You dropped your Dollar Store silver ring on the floor, Baby Girl, the one I told myself not to let you bring in because you were just going to lose it and that would be a nightmare, as a white coated butcher emerged from the deli counter  carrying the world’s largest tray of broccoli rabe. Unable to see around the mountain of sauteed bitters, he tripped on the ring, not only spilling half of his food but sending your precious metal across the floor into oblivion. 

I bet somewhere in space the echo of your screams can still be heard.

I turned to the cashier and quipped, we like going out with a bang…


Yesterday was Labor Day, and I was selling your dad on fall. 


We can light a fire…

We’ll have the new french doors, and we can open them, and BBQ!

“I’m not ready for summer to be over,” he interrupted, just short of giving me the hand. “You’re over it, I know. Just let me be not.”

All summer long I’ve been working on potty training. 

Yes, the whole human going in the toilet thing, but also, Baby Boy, I’ve been working on one of your god-given rights: As a male, you can just stand and pee outside. 

Come on, buddy, just stand up and go pee over there, I’d direct you so lovingly these past few months. Just go over there in the dirt. (“Thank you! Thank you!” I beam over thunderous applause) 

Last night you were about to get into the outdoor shower when you said you had to go peepee, your toddler impeccable timing kicking in. (Just get dressed? I have to go peepee. In the car? I have to go peepee. Food comes at a restaurant, peepee.)

Just go over there, buddy, come on, right behind that bush. Just go. Just let it all out…

All summer long I knew I could get us a little trashier, and then it happened on the eve of the unofficial last night. You stood and peed like a fountain, squirting right over the hosta. 

Cue the angels singing. The fireworks bursting. A marching band playing. 

After all, there is something to be said about going out with a bang. 









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