Stephanie, my little sister, asked me if I wanted to go to St. George with her today because she didn't want to go in by herself to get pants and an undershirt.
I foolishly agreed, thinking, there's two of us, two kids, it'll be a cinch.
(when does my brain start remembering how awful each excursion that lasts longer than 20 minutes is? Because I would really like to know when it will stop torturing me)
I spent my entire time in the bathroom.
Cade would yell, "Mommy, PEE PEE!!" clutch his crotch, and run around in circles, like there was Niagara Falls about to bust out of there. We'd race to find the nearest salesperson (why is the bathroom always at the other end of the store?), and then race to the bathroom, me clutching our lovely portable potty seat in its plastic bag.
We hurry in, the whole time I'm telling Cade, "Wait to go pee pee. We're almost there. Almost there!" I throw the seat on, rip off his underwear and shorts (he insists on this) and plop him on the toilet.
He goes pee, but it's only enough to fill a quarter teaspoon.
We repeated this every 5 minutes.
Every time he screamed, "Mommy! Pee PEE!!" I wanted to ignore him, but there's that awful suspicion, "What if its for real this time?" So off we went. And the more frustrated I got.
I always plan out things in advance. Exactly how I picture its going to be. And I always get frustrated when it never goes exactly how my brain planned it. This trip to St. George was supposed to be fun and relaxing. I was supposed to get to browse, talk, maybe try on a few things (like the lovely navy blue polka dot wrap dress at Ralph Lauren. Way out of the budget, but it would have been fun to try on), and hand crackers to my children while they sat contentedly in the stroller.
Not spend my entire time in the bathroom or bouncing a tired Jackson.
Eventually I will learn.
Mentsch tracht, Gott lacht.
Translation: Man plans, God laughs.
No comments:
Post a Comment