Well, hello there!
Just stopping in to let you know that this week's blog will be one from the files. Now, I would like you to ask me why, please.
Hey, thanks for asking! It is because, in lieu of tending to my offspring, this week I shall be boarding an airliner and flying far, far away in order to sip fruity cocktails on the beach with some of my best girlfriends.
Which is very, very good news.
In the meantime I ask you to content yourselves with this revisiting of a upsetting incident from my child-rearing past.
*from JANUARY 2010
I make a real effort here on the blog to steer clear of doling out parenting advice. I don't think of myself as a child-rearing expert (and, come to think of it, neither do my children!), but every once in a while, an incident from my personal experience seems such a 'teachable moment', if you will, that I feel compelled to pass it along.
Let me be clear right off the bat that today's entry will contain some disturbing imagery. You know how on Facebook that time women were posting about what color bra they were wearing? And how that forced you to picture people you never wanted to think of undressed in their 'dwear? And how that made you feel kind of deeply yucky on the inside? Well, today's posting will inevitably cause some similar discomfort. But if sharing my personal truth can save JUST ONE other person from walking this tragic path, then it will all have been worth it.
"The incident" as we'll call it, happened last Thursday morning. I'd taken the Snood to a largish department store to pick up some housewares. The morning was going surprisingly well, with nary a sign of my impending doom on the horizon, as Snoodie chilled out in the shopping cart, while I got my shop on with all due success.
As we made our way toward the check-out line I noticed a handicapped restroom right off the shopping floor (a detail that will soon become important - please make a note of it) and, deciding that pregnancy qualified as a certifiable handicap, decided to duck in. I set Snoodie down with strict instructions NOT to lick the walls and settled down to take care of business...
...which was just around the time that I managed to recall Snoodie's newest preferred pasttime - opening doors.
As my boy made a bee-line for the handle, I put on my best firm mommy voice and informed him in no uncertain terms, "Snoodie -DO NOT OPEN THAT DOOR!"
But it was to no avail. Before the words were even out of my mouth, Snoodie's hand had reached up, turned the handle and flung the door wide with a self-satisfied grin.
I sat there, mid-stream, and stared out the door - watching as the faces of smiling shoppers took in the scene and transformed into masks of horror. There was nothing left for me to do but cover my face in shame while simultaneously praying for a spontaneous fatal heart attack.
Eventually, a kind-hearted soul from the blender aisle took pity on me and came over to help Snoodie shut the door. I wrapped up my efforts and informed Snood that we were going home to research military schools that would accept 15-month-olds, before gathering what shreds of dignity I had left and exiting the bathroom.
I wheeled my purchases towards the cashiers, ignoring pitying glances from my fellow shoppers, and managed to check-out without further incident.
And then I went home, pulled out my list of "places where Snoodie and I are no longer welcome in Los Angeles" and made another entry.
