How lame am I that the idea of grocery shopping turns me into a puddle of whimpering goo. Our town has maybe 7 grocery stores. Five of them are Market Baskets... surrounded by picketing employees and managers who want the old CEO. I am not sure how much of our plight (I feel like we are living under an embargo) has reached the outside world.
Every trip to the one (yes, one) reasonably-priced alternative is like shopping on the day before Thanksgiving. Madness. 80k people are trying to avoid Market Basket stores out of loyalty to the wishes of the employees and managers there. The parking lot is over flowing with illegally parked cars. The things you want are often just gone. You cannot maneauvor in the aisles. The check out lines are well staffed but still long. It is wearing out me and thousand of other mommies. We are tired of this. I think we are into over a month of this insanity.
I got home from the store today with something like a dozen bags. I was frazzled. My daughter asked why did I ever get so much food. She really doesn't get what it is like out there. I just told her there is no way I am going shopping again for at least 10 days.
You can't make me go back out there!! Please!!
I am a delinquent. I logged into my library account and there it was. "Member is delinquent." Something about that tickled me. My life is so boring. And filled with responsibility and yet, somehow I found the time to be delinquent. How naughty. Okay. The shame is too much. I will pay my $2.20 and shed my bad girl image.
You do have to laugh… it might just take until the next day, I've realized.
Ki, our resident diabetic, came home from dance hungry. Starving. She commenced eating and shooting insulin, having her own personal Thanksgiving. I had to stand between her and the food finally, and request that she switch to no carb options. I was afraid (with good reason) that the game of matching carbs to insulin would leave her either high or low.
At 11pm she was high. We corrected.
She is adorable when I wake her up at night. Or combative. This night adorable and comedic. When I woke her up at 1:30 am to see how the correction had gone she was apparently still hungry. So, hungry that when I handed her the meter she tried to eat it. Seriously. Eyes drooping, her body swaying she was so asleep, she opened her mouth and bit it.
She pouted when I had to take it away from her and wake her up enough to function.
She was higher still. Poor thing. And so we got to play the wake up game one more time that night.
Studies confirm that your IQ drops significantly when you lose sleep. I am proof. Worse, I think I become less fun.
Now there is a crime.
It's a good thing my kitchen floor is blue because it is REALLY blue now. So is the door to the basement and a bit of woodwork.
I consented to Mar's requests to have a bit of blue dye in her hair. I sweated this one as a self conscious mommy. And in the end I found myself (sort of incredulously) in the kitchen with a small pot of blue dye and my daughter wrapped in a towel. The towel figures in this prominently.
Let's blame it.
I asked Mar to wrap the towel up around her head and the resulting movement (performed with flare, as is her way) caught the open jar of blue. Oh, drop a jar of blue. Not so bad. Right? Did it NEED to bounce? And roll?
The splatters were/are impressive and far reaching, and the effect immediate. There is no 5 second rule with dropped, bouncing blue.
Trying to mop it up gave us more blue over a wider area. Mar was frozen there in shock as I tried to clean it up without spreading it about. "Wow," she told me. "My friend's mom would have been SCREAMING by now."
I don't know why by the big things (like a whole jar of permenant SHOCK blue taking over your kitchen) just don't get my dander up. And it was an accident (not like the socks and wrappers under the table).
I could not get all the blue up. And blue is NOT actually my favorite color, unfortunately.
Li came home from school and said, "Jeez, mom, did you murder a smurf?" Ha. I fixed him with my mommy stare and asked if he would like to have a go at cleaning it up.
It took my husband two days to mention anything. Even though he is in and out of the stained door every day. Appaently, the whole "Crap, I've got permenant dye splattered everywhere" is just not that amazing to him after 17 years together.