Ketchup Is a Vegetable: And Other Lies Moms Tell Themselves (12 page)

“Ah sweet, sweet success!” I thought as I checked the last item off of my list. We had completed our mission and the girls were starting to get a little testy and ready to leave. My phone began to ring in the diaper bag, so I reached for my earpiece in my pocket to answer the phone. But it wasn’t there. It wasn’t anywhere. My phone continued to ring, as I was unable to answer it without the earpiece.

“Mommy, your phone is ringing,” Aubrey told me.

“I know. I can hear it.”

It was my Momma, calling for our daily morning chat and I knew she wouldn’t stop calling until she reached me. I dug in my diaper bag and realized the earpiece was officially missing. I turned our caravan around and began retracing my steps through all 100,000 square feet of mega-shopping hell scanning the floor as my phone continued to ring. I would press end and a few minutes later Momma would call again.

It was a vicious cycle:

RING, RING, RING!

Aubrey: Mommy your phone is ringing.

Me: I KNOW. (As I pressed “End” and hung up on my poor unsuspecting Momma.)

I traced my steps all the way back to the bathroom at which time, both kids decided they needed to pee again. After a quick twenty minute potty break, I decided the best course of action would be to check out, since I was at the front of the store, go by customer service and see if anyone had turned in a Bluetooth earpiece, and if not, at least I could put my groceries in my car and see if I had dropped it while I was getting out of the car.

This would have been a great plan… if I had any method of payment. As I loaded all my groceries on to the turnstile I realized I had hidden my wallet under the front seat of my car earlier in the day. I didn’t want to leave it in the girls’ diaper bag when I dropped them off in the nursery at the gym, and it was still there — with my debit card, credit cards and checkbook tucked inside.

“Um, ma’am…I uh, I left my wallet in the car. Can I leave all of this here and run get my money and come right back? Please…” I begged feeling my face begin to flush.

“Sure, no problem,” the Nicest Cashier on the Planet replied.

The girls were playing at my feet and frantically grabbing at all the crap stores put within their reach at the checkout lines. I snatched them both up and threw them in the back of my empty buggy and hauled butt to my car with both kids screaming in unison, “I WANNA WALK!”

As we were making our way across the parking lot I looked down and saw Aubrey had a brand new package of gum in her thieving little hands. Fab-a-lous, now my daughter was a criminal and I was her accidental accomplice.

“AUBREY! Where did you get that?”

“Wellll, from the store…”

“Did you pay for it?” And if you did
why didn’t you speak up
and tell Mommy you had money, huh?

“Ummm, I don’t
think
so.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so, either. You’re taking it back, do you hear me? If you open that you are going to be in DEEEP trouble, young lady!”

About this time we got to my car, and I unlocked the door and grabbed my wallet. As I was leaning in the door I saw a handwritten note tucked under my windshield wiper.

“I found a pink blue tooth earpiece right outside your car door. If it is yours please call 555-3435.”

I grabbed my cell phone and searched furiously to turn off the Bluetooth function so I could call these people. My hands were shaking with nervous energy at this point because my groceries were still sitting on the turnstile and I needed to go pay before the cashier decided I wasn’t coming back. I dialed the number and the phone began ringing.

“Hello?”

“Um, hi. I think you found my earpiece…”

“Oh! Yes, honey we did. We are just pulling out of the parking lot; we’ll turn around and bring it to you. You just stay put!” The sweet older woman told me.

I’m not sure which parking lot this woman was talking about because a full five minutes later she pulled up in her Caddy with my earpiece.

“Thanks!” I said with a smile as I silently memorized her license plate just in case I needed to find her to harass her later… like, if my groceries had been put up and I had to march through Wal-Mart for a third time with my kids. I was about to come unglued.

I rushed back into the store so fast I made the little greeter-man dizzy, and I think a little pissed off because I didn’t let him put a sticker on Aubrey’s pack of gum. But I didn’t have time for trivial details, I was racing to the finish line to get back to my groceries before they were re-shelved and I had a complete and total nervous breakdown smack in the middle of Wally World.

We screeched to a stop at the check-out counter and I sucked down some extra oxygen.

“Sorry… (gasp), about that(gasp)… I(rasping cough), excuse me… I had to get my phone from some woman in a Caddy. Oh, and my kid stole this gum.” I panted.

The cashier looked at me with pity in her eyes, and said, “Don’t worry about it.” (Bless her… wherever she is Lord… bless her.) This would have been the ideal time for Aubrey to turn to me, fling her hand in my face and say, “You’re firahed!” I would have gladly walked away, no questions asked. But
nooooooo
, she wants to claim me when she had just committed her first petty theft.

“MOOOMMMY!” She wailed as I made her put the gum back on the shelf and apologize to the cashier. “MOMMY, hold me!! I’m sorry, Mommy! I’m SO sorry!”

Another day that nearly sent me to the Motherhood unemployment line came when my two oldest were close to five — and three-years-old. It had been a hectic month with my husband working an average of eighty to ninety hours a week. I was writing this book, waiting to hear back from super important New York City literary agents, and so amped up I wasn’t sleeping well at night… or at all.

I spent the morning running errands while a babysitter watched my children so I could be home in time to feed everyone lunch and get them settled down for naps. During nap time, Aubrey and Emma slept soundly. I finished up some household chores and decided to lie down and read since everyone was quiet. I made the mistake of Tweeting my decision out into the universe. Of course, Sadie intuitively knew that I had some free time on my hands and immediately began crying from her crib.

I picked her up and shortly afterwards, the big girls woke up. We went next door to visit with our neighbors, as I thought adult conversation and perhaps a beer might save me from my near exhausted state. But upon returning home to cook dinner I realized the swarm of flies in my kitchen window, which my husband had successfully slaughtered the day before, had sent reinforcements to seek retribution. I don’t mean a few stray flies were in my house. I’m talking Sally-Struthers-Feed-the-Children
swarms
of flies.

I immediately called Zeb because whilst I can handle a single bug at a time, I am ill equipped to handle swarms, hordes or flocks of anything. While I was on the phone talking to my husband’s voicemail and attempting to cook a healthy and nutritious dinner for my cherubs, they were busy grabbing flies and smushing them by the handfuls. I hope you realize I am not a germaphobe, I
let
them eat sand… but come on! This crossed a line. Something had to be done.

I snatched open our childproofed kitchen cabinet and looked for anything in a spray bottle… no Raid, no bug-killer of any kind. Dammit. I grabbed a bottle of air freshener and took my stand at the window, in very much the same way Scarlett O’Hara faced those Yanks, I’m sure. I sprayed furiously while I held my breath and watched as a measly four flies met their Maker. This was pathetic. Scarlett would be so ashamed.

I wasn’t about to load up all three of my kids at dinnertime to go to the store for Raid, but these bugs had to die. What to do? What to do?

I called my husband’s cell phone again and got his voicemail, again. (Grrrrr! Did he not realize I was in the middle of a crisis?)

It turns out that Zeb was in a meeting and unable to discuss my exterminating needs. So I did what any girl would do, I called my next-door neighbor Buck (because my Daddy lives too far away.) He sprayed some toxic substance that had every insect in my house flying kamikaze death spirals in two minutes flat. RIP suckahs.

Once my husband came home, he knew I had been traumatized by the swarm of bugs and his lack of availability in the midst of my misfortune. Immediately he asked what he could do to help.

“PLEASE, feed Sadie some rice cereal and fruit while I finish cooking.”

Bless his heart. (Read: “Bless his darlin’ heart and stupid head.”) He poured dry rice cereal into a bowl and grabbed a bowl of applesauce. He dipped his spoon into the applesauce then stuck it in the dry cereal.

“
What
are you doing?” I asked him.

“Feeding her rice cereal and fruit…”

Was he serious? This is our
third
child… has he always fed them cereal with fruit like it was Fun-Dip?

“Zeb, would you eat oatmeal like that? You have to… mix it… with form-u-la…” I said speaking very slowly.

“Oh,” he said, “I just didn’t want to waste any if she didn’t like it.”

Seriously?
Seriously
. Where is my pink slip?

I
’ll admit it — I love to cuss.
Love
it. Always have. As I’ve gotten somewhat older but not noticeably wiser, I have struggled with my propensity towards profanity. I’m a Southern girl, wife and mother of three — with the mouth of a sailor. I realize it’s not always socially acceptable, and doesn’t exactly glorify the Lord the way my Momma taught me. But I love it just the same. I know a lot of people say that “cursing” just shows people how ignorant you really are, because anyone with a bit of intelligence or education is articulate enough to express their feelings without using a curse word.
Hogwash
, I say. Sometimes, a four-letter word expresses
exactly
how I feel and also saves me the tiring experience of trying to use a whole bunch of words when really all I need is just one. It’s what we journalists like to refer to as “an economy of words.”

Once I had a baby, it just didn’t feel right letting those four-letter words fly like they used to. It was as if I had developed a conscience… a tiny one that drooled and wore a diaper. I tried in vain to be one of those mothers who say, “SUGAR!” when they dropped a fifteen-pound diaper bag on their bare foot. It just didn’t work for me. My sweet, wonderful and Christian mother-in-law has a talent that I envy and have tried without success to replicate: the woman can have a cussing fit without ever saying a “real” curse word. I’ve tried it, but I lacked the creativity and chutzpah she has. I began what I like to refer to as “faux cussin’.”

“Holy chit!” I’d scream when I burned myself cooking.

“Dad-blast-it-all-to-heck!” I’d yelp when I hit my head on a kitchen cabinet.

“Stop FREAKIN’ touching that!” I’d yell to anyone who deserved it, usually after numerous requests in a reasonable tone of voice to “STOP TOUCHING THAT RIGHT NOW!”

Freakin’ was a personal favorite, until I heard it come out of my child’s mouth. Sigh. I explained to Aubrey that “freakin” wasn’t exactly a bad word, but it wasn’t nice either.

“But Momma,” she said, her large blue eyes wide with innocence, “you say it all the time.”

Aubrey and I made the first of many pacts. I would help her try not to say “freakin’” and she would help me. It was a lot harder than it sounds. We were leaving Sonic after a quick lunch one afternoon, when Aubrey said, “Man, that corn dog was so freakin’ good.” I knew exactly how she felt, and she was right. It was freakin’ amazing. I didn’t want to correct her, but I also didn’t want her telling her Sunday School teacher that she thought Jesus was freakin’ awesome or something else slightly sacrilegious. So I reminded her of our pact and that freakin’ was
not
a nice word.

“I’m sorry, Momma. I won’t say it again,” she promised.

We both did pretty well for awhile, only having to remind each other occasionally. One rainy day, while my husband was at work and my two preschoolers were out of school, they begged me to bake a cake with them. I love to cook and they love to mix and stir and make a mess so I agreed, knowing full well what I was up against. They were going to fight over who got to stir first, who got to add which ingredients, who got to lick the beater and who got stuck with the spoon. It would take all the self-control they possessed to keep their grimy little hands
out
of the cake batter until it was ready to be put in the oven and all the restraint I could muster to keep from slipping back to my favorite vice.