Being a Momma
December 11, 2012
Dinner was on the stove last night – some sort of summer squash/bell pepper/onion medley that was seriously looking rough. I went to mask the vegetable flavor with some shredded cheese and – we were out. Since my husband has the gag reflex of a 4 year old when he eats veggies, there’s no way this thing would be edible without being smothered in cheesy goodness.
I scooped Beckett up, loaded him in the car, and pulled into the Albertson’s parking lot .25 miles away.
What is the difference between boys and girls? A boy, even a 15 month old, knows that Albertson’s is the store that has the carts with cars attached. The dude started freaking out when we turned into the parking lot – long before Albertson’s was even in sight.
His excitement level was at an all-time high; enough so that even I was excited and I’m only the cart pusher.
We walked into the store to pick out our ride, but…there were no more car carts. Not even the faded taxi one that is always the last to be picked.
I watched the realization of this hit Beckett. His “did-she-give-him-a-valium?” smile started turning into the saddest face you’ve ever seen.
Since we were only going to be in the store for a few seconds, I tell him, “I’m sorry, Buddy. There are no more. Maybe next time…”
…but I just couldn’t take it.
So we went back out into the parking lot in the 30 degree weather (which equates to about -57° to Texans). We scoured every cart corral in that place until we found a single fire truck cart haphazardly parked in the bushes.
I thought Beckett would explode with joy.
As we walked through Albertson’s, Beckett was laughing/shrieking/vrooming so loudly that grown men busted out laughing as we walked past.
I thought I would explode with joy.
I often feel like I’m playing dress up. I see friends from college and high school who think it’s crazy I’m a parent. I tell them I think it’s crazy, too.
I look around at other moms and think, “Do people think I am one of them? They look like adults; I’m often mistaken for a high schooler. They pack healthy snacks; my child looks like a victim of domestic abuse. They seem to have some idea what they’re doing; I Google everything.”
But last night as I watched the contagious excitement of my little boy as he rode in a germ-infested fire truck through the grocery store, I realized: this is being a mom. And I love it.
Being a mom means that you battle frostbite in dark parking lots because you can’t handle the disappointment on your child’s face. It means that you chance burning dinner at home (“I’m so sorry, babe. The squash mush medley caught on fire. I suppose I’ll have to get a Papa Murphy’s pizza and a side of taco plate from Rosa’s instead.”) by turning a 2 minute trip to the grocery store into a 30 minute fire truck driving excursion, complete with siren noises. It means that, unlike ever before in your life, you do inexplicably ridiculous things for a smile of this magnitude:
I’m pretty clueless about child-rearing and I thank God pretty frequently that even under my supervision, my child is still alive and…dare I say it…sort of thriving.
But, man, I love that little boy so much and I’m so proud to be his momma.