Men think football is tough. Those Brits say rugby is even tougher. I’ve seen players get wailed in baseball. And how many hockey players have a full set of teeth.
You know what I say to all those players? Ha! You only think you know what tough is. Hockey? Bring it on. Football? Tom Brady doesn’t scare me (well, the idea of an undefeated Patriots scares me a little, but it’s not the point here). Rugby? Who needs a wussy helmet?
I’ve got a sport that puts them all to shame, a sport I may lobby the Olympic Committee to have added to the games. My sport? Oh, all you moms of preschoolers and toddlers already know what I’m talking about: It’s the search for a car cart.
Yes, the car cart. It’s a game of skill, of speed, of cunning. And lucky us, we get to play it two or three times a week.
It starts innocuously enough. Enter any Shaw’s, any Stop N Shop, any Whole Foods, or whatever your supermarket of choice is, and you’ll hear that plaintive whine, “Mommy! I need a car cart!” As everyone knows, the grocery stores keep approximately 2.1 car carts for every 27 preschoolers who enter the store, ensuring a good battle every time.
Some days, at some times, it’s shooting fish in a barrel. You spot a lone one in the parking lot, with nary a soul around. It’s yours. But other times, say five o’clock at the Whole Foods, and it’s a blood sport. You leap from your car. Your teammates run ahead, to see if, by chance, there’s one sitting at the entrance. From the corner of your eye, you see another minivan pulling in. “Run!” you yell. “Run faster! Don’t forget to check the other side!” Little feet are huffing and puffing, while the younger of the two throws out additional challenges, just to make things more exciting. “Car cart! The space shuttle one!” The bigger ones, “I see one! I see one!” until you point out that someone’s actually already sitting in that card. So you scour the parking lot, all the while keeping an eye of the other family emerging from the van, the one that is sending out their own pattering feet of car cart emissaries. You eye the other parent, mentally shooting rays of death, or at least, regular carts, at them.
The parking lot is empty. There’s only one move left. The checkout line block. With screaming child in hand (“Mommy! I need a car cart! Where are the car carts?” you head to the checkout lines, where you dash up and down the aisles, just steps ahead of the other minivan parent. And then you see it. A car cart. In the far aisle. Warily, you approach the grown-up attached to the cart. “Would you mind?” you ask. “May I follow you out to your car?” No need to explain. They’ve all done it before themselves. So in the bitter cold, you carry one screaming toddler under your arm, with a preschooler hanging on for dear life to your jacket, as the other mom tells her two kids, “It’s okay. We’re all done with the cart. It’s someone else’s turn.” Of course, this family is parked in Siberia, but it doesn’t matter because you can push the kids back to the store.
Wait for bags to be unloaded. Wait for kids to stop screaming. Wait for kids to be unloaded. Unload your two in. Referee the “I wanted to sit on the other side!” commotion that happens no matter which side you seat your child. Head back into the store to buy the three items you actually came for, carefully maneuvering the cart, which is designed to hit as many endcaps as possible. Make sure to gloat to the other minivan family on your way in.
Football? Yea. I don’t think so. Bring it on, boys.
Once upon a time, my husband was a lowly HBS student, and I blogged with a sense of impunity. I had strong feeling about my compatriot “partners†(read: wives of students), whom I almost fondly referred to as CWITs, which stands for “Corporate Wives in Training.†I lost many a frenemie with my blog posts, although a few of the hardy stood by me and are friends today. In those days, I knew the only person who would suffer from my blog posts was my HBS husband, and I figured since he walked into this marriage with his eyes open, then anything that hit him was, if not well deserved, at least not a surprise.
But now. Now. Now my son is preparing to enter the world of public school education. Tonight was our first informational meeting about navigating the school system. Brief speeches by the superintendent about how children are going to learn all their lives. A little talk from the school nurse about health issues. And questions and answers for the parents. Oh, how my little fingers are twitching to write about my parental peers. About their concerns. Their worries. Their, their, their, well, idiocies. But alas, I find I can’t do it. Because while Adam was well aware of what he was getting into when he married me, my poor Doodles had me thrust upon him, with no say in the matter. And if there are repercussions to be had because of my blog, it would be unfair to have him suffer. So you, my dear reader, will never know of the utter ridiculousness that plague my fellow parents. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m withholding good information. But I owe it to my Doodles.
On a serious note, this has been a tumultuous time. My baby is starting to prepare for kindergarten. We debated holding him back, as he makes the cut-off by a mere a week, but his preschool teachers seem to feel strongly that he wouldn’t benefit from another year in preschool and that he’s just as mature as his peers, so off he’ll go. I know there are plenty of arguments for holding him back based on the later years, but I think it’s impossible to know now what kind of kid he’ll be at thirteen, so we send him, hope for the best, and deal with any problems as they arise. But looking at the school tonight, it just seemed so big. My little munchkin in a class of eighteen to twenty-one? No way! It just doesn’t seem possible.
And then there’s the other big change in my life. I did it. I finally weaned Pie. It’s been ten days since she’s last had Ming Ming, and we’re both surviving, although I’m going through a hormonal roller coaster that’s just not letting up. I’m reclaiming my body, although I barely remember what that was like. I got pregnant with Doodles in late November/early December 2002. And that was the last time my body was mine. I was pregnant till August 2003, nursed until September 2004, and then was pregnant again in November 2004. I’ve been pregnant or nursing for a solid five years now. I’m all done. Adam and I briefly debated having a third child, but have finally come to the conclusion that two is the right number for us, so that’s that. Pie is doing okay with it, although she’s been a bit crankier lately. And you know? I kind of miss it. Oh, not the Ming Ming part. I really didn’t like that. But just before she was so cuddly and happy and she’d snuggle and laugh and she was always so sated and delighted after. I miss happy Pie. I still get the snuggles and laughs, but not as reliably and it’s not the same. Makes me almost–almost!–wish I had kept going, but really, enough is enough. Extended breastfeeding is a wonderful thing… for other moms.
So there we are. Pie is off the boob and Doodles is preparing for kindergarten. It’s a brave new world out there, people.
