Stages.

One of things that I’ve learned, as a new Mom, is to cherish the stages that Shannon is in, while she’s in them.

I’ve often found myself thinking “I can’t wait until she’s mobile.” or “I can’t wait until she starts eating more solid food.” Thinking that those stages will help make my life a little bit easier.

I. Am. So. Wrong.

I want to see that she’s advancing, but now I’m starting to wish for the little baby days back. The days when I could plunk her in her carseat and she’d sleep through lunch or dinner out, or I could lay her on her playmat while I cooked (or went pee…for that matter. There is nothing like waddling around the bathroom with your pants around your ankles, trying to keep a very curious little one out of the trash).

It was all fine and dandy, and I went with it like the pro that I’m not. Until today.

Today was the mother of all stages, and the one that I’ve been dreading.

Tempertantrums…

Sunday’s are typically grocery shopping days around here. Usually Mike is home to assist with the baby wrangling, but today I had to pull on my big girl panties and go it alone. Compliments of the Army…  It’s not a huge deal, as Shannon usually just hangs out in the cart, swinging her feet and taking in the sights.

Not today.

You see, Shannon has developed a fondness for paper in any form.  Her favorites include magazines (extra points for ones Mommy hasn’t even READ yet) and book covers (thicker…more fiber) but any old piece will do. This makes my shopping list an object of much intrest. Last week she was more than happy to just crinkle it around, and Dad was in charge of making sure pieces didn’t end up in her gut. He did a great job, so when she snagged my list this morning, I really didn’t give it any thought.

After I pulled the 5th soggy, gross piece out of her chubby little cheek I decided to call it quits with the paper.

That’s when it happened.

We were in the meat section. Next to the chicken. I extracted the drool covered shooping list from her chubby little fist and placed it in my purse. I then turned to select which chicken package looked the least offensive. In the backgroud I hear this high pitched scream.

Glad it’s not my kid.  I said, and I shuffled through the chicken. Then I noticed the dirty looks being shot in my direction.

Do I have a booger? Did my pants rip? Somebody should really deal with that screamer.

More dirty looks. I select my chicken and turn to place it in the cart. I then realize…

That’s my kid screaming.

Shannon has herself twisted around in the buggy seat, and is reaching for the shopping list in my purse behind her, wailing her little head off.

Purple-faced wailing.

The little Canadian man next to me is shooting daggers out of his eyes. I pray to any higher power that will listen, offering up my soul in exhange for invisbility. They didn’t listen.

Crap, that meants I was actually going to have to DEAL with the situation.

I quickly turn Shannon around and stuff the shopping list in my purse, burying it under diapers, keys, and a half eaten granola bar. Shannon doesn’t want to be turned away from her prize and is fighting me with all her 6 month old viciousness (that’s A LOT…for those of you who don’t have kids).

She then decides to let her inner drama queen out to play, arches her back and flings her head backwards. Smack into the metal backing of the seat.

I’m struggling to unbuckle the stupid buckle as the screaming ups a few decibles and people are starting to dial CPS on their phones. I’m fairly sure the baby gods are going to swoop down, spit in my eye, and carry Shannon away to a nice family who will allow her to eat their shopping list.

I finally got her unbuckled and settled down. People stop staring and resort to muttering under their breath as they walk away. I’m okay with that.

I get Shannon buckled back into the seat, say a quick prayer and continue with my shopping.

She smiles at me, and I can see her entire face start to look a bit strange. Praying that she wasn’t about to repeat the epic meltdown, I start pushing the cart faster, throwing random items into the basket.

Then there is an odd squealching noise emitting from the underside of my little darling. I know that noise. That’s the poop noise. That’s the blowout poop noise.

Sure enough, I lift her out of the cart and there is poop coating the entire surface. I abandon all pretenses, figuring the people of the grocery store won’t be surprised by this further display of “No way to I have my shit together enough to go grocery shopping today”, and whip off my shirt (I wear a tank top under everything… thank you very much). I wrap Shannon in the shirt, finish my grocery shopping, and drive straight to McDonald’s for a coffee.

I won’t be praying for anymore advancing stadges for a while.

My Mom is going to be laughing at the wonder that is karma.

I happen to think karma is a bloody bitch.

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