Thursday, June 30, 2011

The Snappy Dictator

Morning Readers,

    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.."

"Ba".. indeed.

     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? they have any extra ginger snaps?

Until Next Time, Readers!







  1. Ah, how well I remember days like this! Before you know it, they'll be grown and you'll wonder how the years flew by so fast!

  2. As long as you can assure me I'll retain the rights to my memory, I'm sold...haha.

    Thanks for joining the club!