boob, party of one
Wednesday, April 29, 2015Posted by Jena Roach
Your hands begin to sweat as you furiously fumble through your purse. No. No. No. This can't be happening. You double and triple check your bag, your pockets, and your mischievous baby who has recently mastered the subtle art of thievery. Nothing. Oh my god. The worst has happened.
You pull up to your car window and see the lost set of keys unabashedly plopped next to your kid's car seat. Bad word. Bad word. Baaaaad word. They're in plain sight, cruelly taunting you as you stand outside tangoing with the desire to burst into your best ugly woman cry or fat man chuckle.
You choose the former.
You frantically call your husband, thankful it's already time for him to come home. Phew. We'll be waiting ten or fifteen minutes, tops. No answer. You text him a myriad of sad emojis. No reply. You repeat this process a good 700 times before you realize that he's in the middle of a soccer game and won't be done for a long while. Cue Sobfest 2015.
You move your full cart and fussy baby back inside the store because it's cold and people are starting to raise their eyebrows at your projectile tears. Frantically, you call your in-laws, who live five minutes away, before remembering they're out of town. You call your friend who lives fairly close, but no response.
Panic mode sets in. I am going to lose this perfectly good gallon of ice cream.
You try to avoid eye contact with the shoppers entering the store. Desperation pours out of your every nose hair, and you wonder if they can smell it. You silently beg one of them to ask if you need a ride. Whoever warned against getting in the car with strangers never had a toddler and a full cart of groceries on the line. No one approaches. No one asks. You can't blame them; you'd avoid the wailing child and the strange lady smashed between the coin exchanger and arcade game, too.
You call USAA and start crying to some poor soul about letting your baby play with the keys when you were getting her out of her car seat and something about mom brain and melting ice cream and a soccer-playing husband. Your phone suddenly beeps that you have less than 10% battery, so you tell the kind stranger to get a locksmith and step on it. Please. Thank you. Hurry.
You then pump your now screaming baby full of unwashed blueberries and say a prayer to the pesticide gods to stay away from her. She's innocent...ish. A few minutes later, a text message appears on your phone proclaiming your lock guy will be there in two hours. And then you really lose it. You hunch over your cart and seriously debate trying to carry everything, except that damn watermelon, and walk home.
Then a miracle happens. Your friend calls you back. And she rescues you and your baby from grocery jail. And she takes you home. And you try to appropriately thank her despite the clear trauma you've just endured and the mascara running down your face. And you make a mental note to duct tape a spare key between your boobs from now on and to never, ever let your baby play with your keys again no matter how shiny and fun they may be.
P.S. Somehow the ice cream survived. Thank you, Brittney. Thank you.
at 8:00 AM