I’ve heard lots of “You’re not a real mom until you’ve…” things, and I hereby submit my day for the respectful consideration of the Real Mom Committee. You may see this sweet little face and think “Awww, what a cutie!”
And you would be right. However, the following is also true:
This morning, I picked him up to give him a kiss after I fed him, just like always. But this time, he projectile puked. Straight into my eye. And all down my face and clothes. Hello second outfit before 8 am! And hello scrubbing spit up out of my eyelashes. Does that make me a real mom now?
Then we went grocery shopping. And he was fine for about 5 minutes. Until he decided that everyone in Walmart needed to know exactly how much he hates his carseat. Up and down every aisle he shrieked. If I hadn’t needed groceries so bad, we would have bailed, but Mother Hubbard’s cupboards are tapped out, so we shopped and he screamed. I was told about ten times that he was hungry, which he wasn’t. I got lots of “we’ve been there” smiles from other parents who were thrilled that their toddlers were too curious about the howling wildebeest in my cart to bother throwing their own tantrums. And of course I got the icy glares of middle aged women whose exciting trip to Walmart was apparently ruined by PJ losing his mind. Suck it up, Buttercup, and I’m sure your perfect little Percy terrorized a store or two in his day.
So I came home and parked my kid in his new bouncer in front of Sesame Street, and huddled in my kitchen with a pack of TastyKakes. God bless Elmo and the makers of chocolatey goodness.
If none of this qualifies me for the Real Mom club, for the love of all things merciful don’t tell me what it will take!