Sometimes, I think people can be a little uptight. Or rather, I perceive others to be uptight, when, in actuality, they're staring at my kids, wondering how a female gorilla raised them for entire year. To be completely honest, I speculate seventy-eight percent of the population looks at Butch and Sundance and wonders how they received their, particular "mother assignment". The other twenty-eight percent is too busy calling social services. Let's take what happened yesterday, for example.
"Ok, you two. Take a cookie and try not to lose it."
We'd finally reached it....the checkout, the end, the utopia of the shopping experience. As I handed the babies each a yet-to-be-paid-for ginger snap, I couldn't help feeling like Dante, victoriously emerging from the Inferno. Which, coincidentally, is exactly where the clerk assumed we hailed from.
"Hi, how ya doin'?" I smiled as I loaded groceries on the conveyor belt. In return, his sad excuse for acknowledgement signaled I was either dealing with Harry: Crusader for Hermits Everywhere, or someone who was just, plain impolite. As our Midwestern streets aren't exactly teeming with the sack-clothed pious, I leaned towards the latter and tried again. "I think they're ready to get out of here." I laughed and motioned towards the babies, without actually looking at either of them.
"Listen", I wanted yell. "I'm sorry your girlfriend left you because you work here and won't return her dvd of How to Lose a Guy In Ten Days, but I'm trying to be nice, so could you please extend the most minute of pleasantries?"
But, I didn't yell. Instead, I handed him my credit card and watched as he swiped us closer to poverty. This gave me a chance to look at Butch and Sundance, and realize he wasn't a hermit, or rude, or some sort of socially-rejected, dvd pirate. Turns out, he simply thought my child was a fascist.
Ahh, sweet Enlightenment, thou art the pillow I rest my head upon, in an ocean of bulk spaghetti and bargain toilet paper.
I stared at my son; a miniature Hitler stared back at me. Somewhere along the journey of ginger to snap, the tiny cookie had turned to liquid and painted a small, brown mustache on my son's upper lip. Butch looked ready to spout some serious edicts and do a little recreational book-burning. He smiled at me. "Ba.."
Fortunately, Sundance didn't resemble any dictator I could recall, unless Mussolini loved tea but hated soap. Strapped to my chest, face painted like a happy burnt-sienna clown, she tried to offer me the remnants of a ginger snap. "Ma?"
"Ha ha ha...We're a mess, aren't we? Thanks and have a great day." I shoved everything in the cart and moved our hostile take-over to the parking lot.
Should I be allowed to raise children?
Should I always carry a wet wipe?
Does it bother me when people think my kids are being raised by a blind, lame, mountain lion?
Depends...do they have any extra ginger snaps?
Until Next Time, Readers!