Certifiable

July 14, 2011

in Blame The Sudafed, Mommy-ville Detour

When I married the Big Man and his ’67 Chevy and matching cowboy hat, my friends and family all raised an eyebrow, albeit discreetly.  And behind my back.  Mostly.

When I announced that I was pregnant with the Little Man and would be abandoning my burgeoning career to become a SAHM, my inner circle held it’s collective breath.  Maybe because no one could remember the last time I’d actually changed a diaper.  Or possibly because, as a child, I was just as likely to lose the head off of a Barbie doll as I was her shoe.  (Seriously – Mattel?  Ever considered an ANKLE STRAP??)


And when I announced that, having managed to keep the Little Man alive for a whole 9 months, I was ready to double my brood?  Well even the Big Man considered sending me to a shrink rather than my OB.

But through it all, I have been assured, in my own mind, of my sanity.

Which probably should have been the first clue that the men with the little white coats were long over due.

So what did it take to make me realize that perhaps I should consider laying down on a couch other than my own?

Sadly, it wasn’t the marathon of giving birth to my second child in less than 2 years and then moving cross-country 2 weeks later – pumping breast milk with one hand while bottle feeding the infant in the rear-facing seat behind me with the other while my MIL tried to keep an ear out for approaching sirens lost in the cacophony of shrieks emanating from the toddler attempting to kick his way out of his own car seat to help Mommy.

Nor was it the pitying looks accompanied by a slight sniffing of the air for Eau De Crazy that I received when announcing that YES, my second child would also be in cloth diapers.  And YES, my first child is also still in his own cloth diapers.  In fact, by the end of the year – we might ALL be in cloth diapers, it’s going so well!

It wasn’t even the realization that of the four living beings in my house between the hours of 730am and 530pm every day, I?  Am the only one able to verbalize my own needs.  I may not have been good at charades in college, but I’m willing to bet the big bucks that now?  I can take on Charlie Chaplin any time, any where.

And yet, as of 12:02pm today, I am fairly certain that if I wikipedia-ed the word “Crazy,” I would be presented with a grainy security photo of myself.  At Walmart.  With the Little Man doing his best exorcist impression attempting to see what goodies I left within reach of his hungry little hands, as I push the cart containing him, an empty infant carrier, and an all-important bottle of Draino down the aisles searching for an available cashier.

One handed.

Because in the other hand, I have the Little Miss.  Doing, as Erin so fittingly put it, her best Meryl Streep impression: “the red-faced and breathless sob.”  Not because I accidentally let her head fall off.  At least not that I noticed.  But because she, in her infinite wisdom as a newborn with a possible mild concussion (don’t ask) had refused a feeding before leaving the house.  15 MINUTES AGO.  And now?  Her world is coming to an end. AN. END.


And if you zoom in on that security photo?  You’ll see it.  The moment when even I had to admit that, maybe, possibly, probably – I?  Went a little crazy.


Because in that moment, while attempting to soothe one child with her pacifier while avoiding steering the other child into the elderly couple limping home in front of me, I seriously considered publicly breastfeeding my child.  


Sans Hooter Hider.


In the middle of Walmart.


Yards from the exit.


And if I’d had another hand?  I’m not certain it wouldn’t have happened.

Comments on this entry are closed.

Previous post:

Next post: