 OK,
what’s the deal, seniors? Have you completely forgotten what it’s like to raise
kids? Why do you give us such withering looks when our toddler has a fit in the
check out line? This never happened to you? Kids were that much different in
the fifties?
Hey, give me a break. I’m sorry I
planned my fun-filled shopping trip for the same time the senior citizen bus
drops all of you off, but I was out of juice boxes. I just cannot be out of
juice boxes. I’ll lose my union card and they’ll send my kids off to foster
care.
Look, I try to be understanding. I
mean, I’m going to be old some day if my kids don’t kill me first. I try to be
patient when they park their carts in the middle of the aisle. I gingerly move
them aside, in a manner I hope suggests my goodness as a human being, that is,
with a pleasant smile on my face. I don’t want to seem like I’m in a hurry,
even though I have to finish this shopping trip in fourteen minutes or I’ll be
late again for T-Ball practice. I want to be helpful, so I happily grab canned
peaches off the top shelf for them if they ask. I patiently submit to their
lectures when I grab the first orange juice I see and not the brand that’s on
sale.
So I’m just asking for the same
respect in return! Don’t give me the evil eye if my darlings brush against your
cart while they jump from green linoleum square to the next green linoleum
square. After all, they have to avoid the red squares. Those are the “lava.”
I hope when I’m older I’ll remember
every last thing about how tough it is to get through a grocery store trip with
three reluctant boys trailing behind me. The preschooler had to open and shut
every single frozen food section door, in precise order (the pediatrician tells
me OCD is normal for this age). The kindergartner was begging for an orange
soda and had to go potty. The second grader was lecturing me on the food
pyramid. He wanted a detailed explanation of what “price per unit” means and
then started whining “but I don’t GET it” after I tried to explain it.
I wound up with fruit roll-ups,
library paste and a Buzz Lightyear toothbrush not because I’m worthless and
weak, but because you can only say NO 2.364 times before you finally say YES,
DAMMIT, I’LL BUY THE F***ING FROOT LOOPS!
It was even worse when they were
babies. I remember trying to balance that bloody car seat on the shopping cart,
rushing through a shopping trip, forgetting the milk, butter and eggs, only to
have my odiferous heir wake up and scream in the check out line while I was
leaking milk like the Johnstown dam. And then I get The Look from the old lady
behind me. That tongue-clucking they all do. “You should have gotten a
babysitter. In our day we didn’t take kids shopping.” Right.
In your day, old woman, they had
pushcarts and milkmen. You didn’t have to leave the house, remember? So don’t
mess with me. I’m sleep-deprived, my tits are ready to blow and my husband’s
working late again so you gotta ask yourself ‘Do I feel lucky?’ Well, do ya,
punk?”
I hope when I’m old I’ll give
understanding looks to the struggling young mothers. I want to be the cool old
lady that all the new moms dig. I’ll dispense thoughtful advice and well-timed
dum-dum lollipops. And when some poor, hapless mother is desperately trying to
soothe an overtired toddler in the cereal aisle, I’ll lean over and whisper, “Just
buy him the f***ing Froot Loops. It worked in our day.”
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Quirkee Voices 
(0 vote)
