My son, possessed

Is there a moment, in every mother's life, when she wonders if her darling, love-filled, cherub-faced child, who was created in a moment of love and passion, may, in fact, be the spawn of some evil, sleep-swallowing force?
I have many such moments, as Big Boy is a very strong-willed child, full of energy (we'll call it that) and very stubborn.
One of those moments occurred last night. I was very tired yesterday because I went to a late movie with my mom. I know, I shouldn't complain, I chose to go to the movie. But I swore to myself that I'd go to bed early last night. So I was in bed, lights out, by 10:35.
At 1:30, Big Boy woke up. He was crying so I went into his room. He said he wanted to cuddle. So I cuddled with him. He said he needed more ice in his water. So I got him more ice. He said he needed a book. So I gave him the book. I said I was going back to bed. He said he wanted to cuddle some more. I cuddled some more. Finally, about about 1:58, I was back in bed. I must have fallen asleep because at 2:20 I was startled awake by Big Boy's screaming and running up the stairs. I got up and carried him back downstairs. He wanted to cuddle. I cuddled one more time. He wanted me to tell him what the words were on the first page of "Cat in the Hat," but I said no. You've got to put your foot down at some point, right? I told him, "I'm going to be tired and grumpy tomorrow, because you are keeping me awake. It is the middle of the night."
I know it's immature, but still.
So he started jumping out of bed, over and over, chasing me to the door, over and over, crying, half between screams and growls. Over and over. I put him back in bed over and over. He continued to scream/growl and then launch himself out of bed and jet toward the door. Over and over. It was weird. I was really beginning to think he was possessed.
Finally, I grabbed him by the sides of his face and said, "You need to stop."
He stopped crying. I started to walk out of his room and he started up again.
I went out and shut the door.
I texted MrDartt to tell him that his son is possessed.
MrDartt got home a few minutes later and I fell asleep at 3:30 a.m.
Little Boy woke up at 5 a.m.
Big Boy woke up at 6 a.m.
I am tired and grumpy.

My House: Through A Guest's Eyes

Isn't it funny how, when you know someone's coming over, you look at your house totally differently?
Normally I can see past the muddy dog prints in the entryway or the dirty handprints on the door to the garage. I can ignore the slimy finger smears on the sliding glass door and the stack of movies atop the entertainment center. I can step around a pile of toys on the living room floor a hundred times without noticing it, but when someone's coming over, it looks like a mountain (Mount Everest, probably).
I'm having two friends and their kids over for dinner tonight and I'm just going to let it go. I'll spot clean the spit up stains off the wood floor (they're those splotches you don't notice happened until they're dried, and then, by the time you remember to clean them you're on your way to the laundry room with your arms full of laundry and you can't clean them because your arms are full and you think you'll come back to them but then you forget because when you're done with the laundry you remember the dishes are clean and ready to be put away and then the next time you see the spit up stains you're on your way downstairs to get the screaming baby).
Anyway, so I'm not going to freak out and scour the house before my friends come. They'll still like me, despite the stack of bills on the kitchen counter and the half-dead cactus in the dining room.
And I promise I will not make my friends uncomfortable by saying things like, "Don't mind the muddy dog swipes on the front door," or, "Oh sorry, I didn't find the time to wipe down the bathroom sink, which Big Boy used to wash off his dirty hands after he made a beautiful art project of the potting soil."
And I swear I will have a good time, and I won't even think about whether my friends are noticing the sticky apple juice spill (why didn't I notice that before they got here?) next to the bar stool in the kitchen.

My big scare

Last night I had quite a scare, and then quite a laugh.
I went out on the front porch to feed Lola, and there was a HUGE tarantula right next to her bowl. Okay, it wasn't that big, for a tarantula, but it was big for a spider, and it was black and hairy. And those things can jump, you know.
So I quickly went back into the house and called my parents to ask what to do. I know, what a baby, right? Anyway, I told my dad, "I don't know what to do. It's right next to Lola's bowl."
"I'll be right down," he said. I argued with him for a few minutes, but I could sense his excitement building. In the meantime, I watched through the window as Lola sniffed the spider and sent it scurrying away. I told my dad it was gone, but he came down anyway.
I heard his truck pull up, and I walked onto the front porch, where I saw it curled up in the corner, probably hiding from Lola. My dad emerged with a big orange Home Depot bucket and a broom.
Before I tell the rest of the story you should know that my dad is not a small guy. He is about 6'3", and was a lineman in college football.
So he spots the spider, and comes onto the porch and tries to sweep it into the bucket. It runs to the edge of the front porch. My dad leaps back.
At this time MrDartt, who was working late last night, calls and I relay the story to him. We're cracking up, and MrDartt says probably my dad wants to capture the tarantula and put it in a terrarium so Big Boy can raise it. My dad has mentioned this idea before.
My dad tries again to sweep the spider into the bucket. This time, it goes into the bucket, but it crawls right back up the edge of the bucket and jumps out. My dad leaps back.
Then he's trying to sweep it into the bucket, while he's standing half on the patio and half on the lawn. The spider's not going in and my dad keeps jumping back.
For such a tough talker, he's kind of skittish around this spider. But you'd better believe I'm not touching that sucker. MrDartt and I hung up.
Then my dad tells me, "This is half the size of the tarantula we found in our garage. Your brother stepped on it and the legs came off and they were still moving!"
No wonder he was skittish.
Finally, he got the spider to stay in the bucket and then he ran across the lawn and threw it onto our big hill.
Whew.

Where do they get that ...

Is it worse to wonder where your kid got an idea, or to know exactly where he got it?
Two examples:
Big Boy's new thing is to run away from me when it comes time to put his diaper on. So yesterday morning, he's running away from me, I'm chasing him, and he runs between the coffee table and the couch. He's laughing, "Ha ha ha, ha ha ha," and then he says, "God damn it," and then keeps laughing. "Ha ha ha."
In this case I know exactly where he got that. It's MrDartt's standard exclamation, whenever something happens. He drops an ice cube when filling his glass. (Every single time he fills his glass.) "God damn it." He hits his hand with a hammer. "God damn it." He is mad at Big Boy. "God damn it."
The second example comes from one of my closest friends. Her son is three, and they also have a seven-month-old girl. Well, to speed up the bathing process, one parent sometimes jumps in the shower with both kids. The baby sits in her little bathtub on a big step in their shower. They use a little cup to rinse her. The other day when my friend's husband was bathing the kids, the three-year-old, who's been potty-trained for quite some time, picked up the baby's rinsing cup and peed in it! He set it down, full of pee.
The worst part, my friend said, was that the baby would have gotten rinsed off with it if my friend hadn't seen the whole event and dumped the pee.
She has no idea where her son got that idea.

Big Boy's Photography Skills

Over the weekend, we had a mini adventure.
I know, I asked for it.
Grandpa Dartt gave the family a boat. It's a small boat and is appropriate for taking fishing on the small lakes around here. So Uncle S and Aunt L are fixing it up, and it's in their possession right now. They invited us to go fishing with them on Saturday.
We bought the life vests and put on sunscreen. We packed snacks and hats and the camera.
Big Boy, of course, had to take some of his own pictures. I thought it would be cute to post them here.
So I was scanning through the camera to find a good one, and there's a problem.
The first one Big Boy took is of Aunt L's bottom. It's an up-close shot of her bottom in the driver's chair, from the left.
The second picture he took is of Aunt L's bottom. From the right.
The third picture is of -- you guessed it -- Aunt L's bottom. From the back.
They're ALL up close and I know she would just die if I posted one on the internet.
Needless to say, I won't be posting any of Big Boy's pictures from our boating trip.
I think when Big Boy is taking pictures, he just holds up the camera and pushes the button -- he thinks that whatever he's looking at is going to be in the picture, regardless of what he sees in the viewfinder (I am pretty sure he doesn't even look at the viewfinder). Although, he may be taking pictures of Aunt L's bottom on purpose -- he always has had a soft spot for her.

Our marriage may survive, after all

A couple of weeks ago, MrDartt was convinced that our marriage was doomed for failure because I like meat pizza and breadsticks, and he likes veggie pizza and wings.
I, while thinking about becoming a vegetarian, want meat pizza every time. And he, who loves meat above all other food groups, wants veggie pizza, every time.
So last time we went to pizza, he said he thought our marriage was doomed. Luckily, we got half meat pizza and half veggie pizza (plus an order of breadsticks).
Finally, last night, we found harmony.
We decided on pizza and wings. We both like pizza and we both like wings. We got half pepperoni and half pepperoni and onions. That's our standard sharing pizza. When we got it home (nobody delivers where we live so we have to pick it up), he asked me, "Do you like the drumettes or the wings?" I said, "The drumettes."
"Ah," he said. "Harmony at last."
Yes, I like the drumettes and he likes the wings.
Our marriage just might make it.

My Broken Speedometer

Is it my speedometer, or do some people just drive painfully slow?
I think it's acceptable to drive five miles per hour, maybe even nine, faster than the posted speed limit. I am pretty sure police don't pull drivers over for speeding unless a)they're going 11 or more miles per hour faster than the speed limit or b)they have some other secret reason to pull them over, like they think the driver is smuggling prohibited chinchillas across state lines.
So what drives me totally batty is when a driver keeps his car in the fast lane, going exactly the speed limit, when he could easily pull over to the slow lane to let me pass. Or worse, when a driver sits in the fast lane, going exactly the speed limit, right next to someone in the slow lane who also is going exactly the speed limit. And inevitably, one of the drivers speeds up just enough to make me think maybe I can pass him, really quickly. But then he slows down again, right when I'm about to make my move. Then there's times when I REALLY want to pass someone, and it's like he knows, and he slows down on purpose, right when he gets lined up with someone else. How about the guy who is going so slow for 10 minutes until you get to a stop light and then he drives like he's trying to outrun a tornado, and you can't keep up with him to save your life, or, Heaven forbid, to pass him.
My favorite is the guy who's driving along, looking off to the right the whole time, which slows him down to unbearable speeds. Or the guy who's gesturing to his passenger the entire time and therefore can't drive any faster than five miles per hour under the speed limit.
Sometimes I think my speedometer is really broken. That's when I'm giving humanity the benefit of the doubt.

Total Embarrassment

Yesterday I literally almost died of embarrassment.
My mom, my sister-in-law and I took Big Boy (and Little Boy, of course -- don't leave home without him) to see a police K-9 demonstration at this local arena. The state's K-9 officers are in town this week for a training and they put on a free show for the public.
We got there early and walked around for a little bit, to get Big Boy's last-minute wiggles out. Of course, as soon as we took our seats, Big Boy announced, "I'm poopy."
Of course, I'd left the diaper bag in the car. So we walked out to the car to get diapers and wipes and of course, all I had were Little Boy diapers.
So we went back into the arena, and of course, the first two restrooms I went into did not have diaper changing tables.
I was in a hurry -- the show was about to start -- and Big Boy held my keys while I changed his diaper.
We got back to our seats and the show started. A while later, the guy who was announcing during the show (he was standing in the middle of the demonstration area) announced that someone had found some keys in the men's restroom. He went on to say they were Volvo keys, and that the police departments were going to have a nice new Volvo.
That's when I realized they were my keys. Big Boy must have dropped them in the restroom (we were in the women's restroom, I swear!). And then in my rush, I forgot about them.
My mom, sister-in-law and I raised our hands but the guy didn't see us. A while later, he brought up the keys again, and this time he saw us raising our hands.
He said, "They're yours? What were you doing in the men's restroom?"
And Big Boy announces, "I pooped! I pooped on the potty and I got four chewy bears!"
(Big Boy really pooped on the potty the day before, and got TWO chewy bears, but four is apparently his go-to number). The guy couldn't hear me or Big Boy, but of course everybody in the stands could.
Then he wanted me to tell him what was on my keys, to prove that they were, indeed, mine.
Well, I started to list off a few things, but he couldn't hear me through the plexiglass (this is a hokey arena and even though it's not hockey season, the plexiglass was up).
I felt my face turning red. I looked at my mom and sister-in-law, and their faces were red, too.
The guy started looking at my discount cards, and he started asking me which discount cards I have on there. Of course, I have about 18 since every single store now offers one.
I must have looked fairly believable and VERY embarrassed -- he eventually sent another police officer into the stands with my keys.
I'm so glad someone turned my keys in, but I also am glad I survived the embarrassment!

Learning Things

Both of my children are learning lots these days.
Little Boy is (finally!) learning to crawl. It goes like this: hand, hand, knee, foot. Tummy. Hand, hand, knee, knee, hand, knee, foot. Tummy. Back. Tummy. Hand, hand, knee, knee, hand, hand, knee, knee. Tummy. And so on. His head is just so big, I think, that it's hard for him to balance for very long and to hold his head up at the same time.
Big Boy is learning to catch. And to go poop on the potty. And to carry stuff.
This morning he came up the stairs carrying his giraffe, a small elephant, a polar bear, and a lion. He slept past his night light (we put it on a timer so he'd stop getting up at 5 a.m.), and he went to bed last night without crying. So he got a sticker for his chart. When he came upstairs, he set all his animals on the kitchen floor and wanted to take a sticker back downstairs for his chart. So he got his sheet of stickers and tried to pick up all those animals again. Dropped the elephant. Picked it up and dropped the polar bear. Picked it up and dropped the lion. Picked it up and dropped the stickers. "Why do I keep dropping stuff?" he asked.
No idea.
Yesterday, Big Boy asked, "Am I starting to poop?"
"I don't know," I said. "Want to try to poop on the potty?"
"YEAH!"
So we went into the bathroom and he tried and tried, and finally, he pooped on the potty. Just a little tiny bit. But he was trying so hard! I thought he must have to go more, so I got his little potty so it would be easier (he likes to sit on the regular toilet). Warning: here's where it gets graphic. No more came out, but he did manage somehow to get a lot of poop smeared on the back of his little potty. So we wiped that off, and he got back on the big potty, and no more came out. So we wiped his bottom, he flushed about four times, and he got two chewy bears (that's what he calls gummy bears. He gets one for pee and two for poop).
This morning Big Boy wanted to play catch with his big green ball. But every time he goes to catch it, he hits it up with his arms. So I'm telling him, "hug it to you." So then he get it, and he's catching it and then bending down over it and hugging it for five seconds each time. I throw. He catches. He hugs.

My Accident-Prone Husband

I think MrDartt is particularly accident-prone.
Yesterday, on one of the hottest days yet this year in Arizona, he got a flat tire while driving on the highway to Phoenix. It was probably 110 degrees outside and he had to change a flat tire. Then, while he was getting the tire out of the trunk, it got stuck on something (I think he said the carpet in the trunk) and flipped over, smashing his finger. Blood came out from under his fingernail.
One time, he was trying to get a wasp out of our house (have I mentioned that we have hummingbird-sized wasps?). It was up near the ceiling. He tossed a throw pillow at it (Ha! He threw a throw pillow). The pillow came down, and as he caught it, the wasp landed on it, stinging him in the hand.
Another time, he was building a patio in our front yard. He smashed a wasp with a hammer, rolled over to get another brick, and got stung by another wasp.
This stuff happens all the time.
When we were building our house, he took a good swing with his brand new hammer (he was very excited to have his own brand new framing hammer), and whacked his hand with full force. He had the waffle-pattern embedded in his hand.
That's all I can think of for now.
Maybe we should play the lottery. MrDartt has an uncanny ability to succeed at very unlikely things.

Funny Guy

You've probably seen him, or at least, someone just like him.
There's this guy who walks around the town where my husband works. He's always, always wearing a big, fur-lined parka and big heavy boots. Even when temperatures climb into the 90s and 100s. He's obviously homeless.
In the past, my husband and his co-workers have made fun of this guy for wearing the darn parka all the time.
One of MrDartt's co-workers also is really involved in his church and recently participated in an outreach project for local homeless people. The parka guy showed up. MrDartt's co-worker got to talking to him and at one point asked, "Doesn't that parka get hot?"
Parka guy explained that he was homeless by choice, and lost his son when his son was five years old. He has some reason to believe his son might come back. He said his son had last seen him wearing the parka, so he always wears it in case his son comes looking for him.
We've all made fun of people we deem "crazy" or whatever, but this sure puts things in perspective.

Getting Beat on Thinking Ahead

Isn't it awful when you think you're thinking ahead, but despite your best intentions, things don't turn out as you expected them to?
Here's what happened: we've been hunting for a kid-sized table for Big Boy (and Little Boy, when he gets bigger). We wanted to put it in the play area so he could sit there and color, or so he could play with his big castle or his blocks there.
We debated about which kind to get -- should we get a wooden table with four little chairs? Or should we get one of those inexpensive fold-up card tables with two chairs?
Finally, we decided on a little picnic bench whose seats are attached -- we were thinking that way, Big Boy wouldn't cart the little chairs all over the house. He already carts the big barstools all over the house, so he can climb on them to reach things. You go to sit down at the barstool and it's not there; you then find it in the bathroom (no idea).
So anyway, we bought this little picnic bench that's supposed to seat four kids. We put it in the play area.
And despite our best intentions, Big Boy is dragging it, benches and all, all over the house!
I keep finding it haphazardly placed between the play area and the living room, half on the wood floor and half on the carpet. Or in the kitchen.
"Why do you keep moving the table?"
"Because I want to."
So much for thinking ahead.

Superman in the ER

Yesterday was Big Boy's second trip to the ER.
It was my day to sleep in, and at 7:45 I heard Big Boy start crying, loudly. He was saying, "I want my grandma! I want my mommy!"
MrDartt came blasting through the bedroom door and announced, "I think we might need to take him to the hospital."
In my just-woken-up daze, I didn't see anything wrong, so I asked, "What happened?"
Just then, I saw the huge goose egg on Big Boy's forehead.
He'd been playing on the couch and he fell and hit his head on the coffee table. It immediately started swelling and it turned practically black.
We decided to take him to the ER just to make sure he didn't have a head injury -- with that much swelling so quickly, we thought, he must have hit his head pretty hard.
Of course he was wearing his Superman pajamas, so there were multiple crash landing jokes.
Then, when the nurse came in and asked him what happened before he fell, he said, "I was flipping over."
Then, the doctor came in and was chatting it up with Big Boy.
"Hey Superman," he said. He asked Big Boy a few questions and then asked, "Do you have any cool tools in your belt?"
"Just some guns," Big Boy said.
What is with this kid and guns? He's constantly talking about guns.
All's well that ends well -- Big Boy doesn't have a head injury. He didn't pass out or throw up.
They told us to watch out for irritability, but that is Big Boy's almost-constant state of being, so we weren't too concerned with that.
We ended up having a pretty nice day. We went to the donut shop after our hospital trip, and then we went to Peter Piper Pizza (it's kind of like Chuck E Cheese's, but not quite as cool) for dinner.
Big Boy is irritable right now. All's well.

Real or Fake?

Last night, I dragged MrDartt to the annual Rodeo Dance downtown. He had fun despite himself. In addition to his rendition of the two-step, which he called the three-and-a-half-step, we had fun people watching. We played, "Real or Fake," in which we looked at people and guessed whether they were real cowboys or fake ones.
You see, every year, there's a five- or six-day rodeo in town. It's a big deal and the local bars are swamped with participants (the real cowboys). This rodeo and all its associated events (like the Rodeo Dance, which is in the parking lot of a shopping center, and is complete with hay bales for seating around the dance floor) draws a lot of locals who dress up in Western wear just for fun during the weeklong festivities (those are the fake cowboys).
Some things to look for when playing:
The hat. Is it black and shiny? Does it have rhinestones? Does it have feathers? If the answer to any of these is yes, then the hat is probably not on a real cowboy. If it's a baseball cap, it's probably only on a real cowboy if it is fitted -- and if he's wearing the right shirt. Read on.
The shirt. Is it tucked in? Is it plaid? If yes to both, probably it's on a real cowboy. Here's a contradiction, though: one guy was wearing a super-tight black and white striped shirt that showed off his big muscles. He had on what looked like a real cowboy hat. And real cowboy boots. But the shirt was so goofy! It was SO tight (I know I already said that, but seriously. It was SO TIGHT). And it was tucked in to his jeans, which were so high on his waist. We decided he was a real cowboy because of the way his jeans fit and because of how well he could do the two step.
The belt. Does it have a big buckle? Not all cowboys wear belts, and some fake cowboys wear the big buckles, so this one is not a dead giveaway.
The jeans. This is a big one. Are they baggy? If so, this almost certainly is not a real cowboy. Cowboys wear those nice, tight, perfectly-fitted jeans. This is one of the best things about cowboys and about the rodeo and about the Rodeo Dance. I know MrDartt will read this, but I have admitted openly that cowboy bottoms are often nice-looking.
The boots. Are the boots squeaky clean and brand new looking? Or are they dirty, scratched, dusty and mud-caked? There was one young guy who almost had us fooled. He was wearing loose jeans and a loose name brand T-shirt, and he had spiky hair (no hat, and no hat hair). But the dirty boots gave him away.
The dancing. Any decent cowboy has perfected the two step to any song, fast or slow. He can twirl a girl around the dance floor -- darting here and there, to and fro, between other couples who do not do the two step very well (read: MrDartt and MrsDartt), and all the while, he looks totally bored.
So next time you're at a rodeo dance, or next time you see a cowboy walking down the street (which happens more often here than it does in other parts of the country), you'll be able to spot whether he's a fake.
Remember, if he has rhinestones on his hat, he's probably a fake.

"The Ignorant"

I love people.
Today as I was driving Big Boy and Little Boy to our music playgroup, I stopped at a stop sign to turn onto the road that leads to the highway. A woman driving a Honda Civic Hybrid drove past us, and I waited for her before turning onto the appropriate road. As she drove past, she was looking in the mirror, fluffing her hair with her hands. I pulled onto the road behind her and was alarmed at the sheer number of bumper stickers she had on her car.
They said things like, "The Ignorant Should Not Reproduce."
"You are not the car you drive. You are not your f**king khakis."
And so on.
It doesn't really matter.
The two things she did that I found noteworthy, especially after I read the bumper stickers, are: she was driving like a maniac! She was tailgating and at the first opportunity she decided to pass someone so she jammed her car between the one she was behind in the fast lane and a slightly slower one in the slow lane, so she could go around the one she was behind.
Then, she was smoking.
Really? Are you serious?
So here is this girl insinuating that she is not ignorant and that she is not her Honda Civic Hybrid and not her khakis, either, and she is driving like a maniac and she is smoking.
Driving like a maniac shows that she is not as Zen as her bumper stickers were trying to make her sound. They were shouting, "I am Zen! I am relaxed! I am better than you even though I am implying that you think you are better than me. I am better than you because I know I am not better than anyone." And her driving is shouting, "But I am driving like a maniac so get the HELL out of my way! Because I am better than you and your driving sucks!"
And then she is smoking! Her smoking is shouting, "I am so ignorant! I am smoking even though everybody knows by now that smoking is terrible for you and it can kill you! But the ignorant should not reproduce!"
And don't forget the hair-fluffing. She may not be her Honda Civic Hybrid or her khakis, but she is definitely her hair style.
I love these people.
I hope she is not reproducing.

The Big Tweeze

When did the shape of women's eyebrows become a matter of concern?
I have very hairy eyebrows. The darker main part of my eyebrow looks okay, but then down below that, there's a ton of blond hair. All these teeny tiny little blond hairs. And a few big fat dark ones. I wax them about once every three weeks, and pluck in between. But it's a hassle. Between showering, putting on my makeup and doing my hair, I rarely have time to tweeze.
I don't see many men tweezing, waxing or shaping their eyebrows. I don't see them applying mascara in the rearview mirror. I don't see them shaving or waxing their bikini areas. I know some men wax their back hair or chest hair, but when's the last time you saw one shaving his legs in the bathroom sink before rushing off to the pool?
It just seems unfair.
I'm going to take a stand and stop shaving all together.
Yeah, right.
I'm really just going to keep shaving. I'm going to keep tweezing. I'm going to keep waxing. For the rest. Of. My. Life.

The Fastest Grocery Store Trip EVER!

I've found a new way to increase the speed at which I complete a grocery store trip: sheer panic.
Yesterday, for the first time, I left Big Boy at the Kids Corner in our grocery store. He's been asking for weeks to go in there, and since we were running late, I finally caved and turned in the paper work I'd filled out several weeks ago. It's a locked room, where a fingerprinted childcare person watches the kids and lets them play with toys or color or watch movies. Both the child and the parent have to wear bracelets, and only the person who dropped the child off can pick him up. Only two ways exist to get into the room: a keypad outside the door and a button inside the room both open the door. So it's pretty safe. Also, there are monitors throughout the store you can look at and see your kid.
But when I left my little boy there, very cheerfully, I might add, I felt like crying! He's just so little and I've never left him with strangers in a strange place. Not that the grocery store is that strange of a place, but you know what I mean.
So I rushed through the store, at a run (not really, it was too crowded). I grabbed the yogurt, the bread, the meat and the tuna. I threw the apples, bananas, and celery into the cart. For once, I didn't miss anything as I went through the store, and I never had to turn back. I was done, including checking out after a woman who wrote a check (yes, people still write checks), in less than 30 minutes, with our weekly shopping trip.
Less than 30 minutes. It's a new record.
Amazing.
That's what panic will do for you.
And when I went to get Big Boy, he came out, happy to see me and ready to go, but having had a great time building a road with the Kids Corner girl.
He talked all the way home about the sticker he got and the road he built and the games he played.
And we both survived.