Rex, Rocky, Vivi, and Billy                                                                            

I'm Just Going To Run To Marshalls

I'm Just Going To Run To Marshalls

…with both kids.  What was I thinking you ask?  Well, I thought I’d stick Vivi and Billy in the double stroller with a bag of veggie chips

Proof from a prior outing that this method isn't a sure thing I guess.

Proof from a prior outing that this method isn't a sure thing I guess.

and I’d secure a dress for my dear friends’ wedding this weekend --> Yeah Matt and Leigh!! (#Sulleigh).  Do you think this post is about my children tantrumming in public?  Not today!  No.  Today I want to talk about the fact that I’m not sure moms get adequate credit for getting their shit together enough to look presentable at a formal event.  This shit ain’t easy.  Much like I am constantly remembering to remember things, I also had to plan to plan to buy a dress because motherhood duties/toddlers are uncompromisingly fucking relentless sometimes. 

I decided to rip the shopping with kids bandaid off on Tuesday.  Believe it or not, we got ready and made it to Marshalls pretty seamlessly.  I zoned in on two cute dresses as I sashayed through the automatic doors, and I flung them over my stroller handlebars.  Ha!  See, world!  I can do this.  Then I noticed a pretty perfect DVF wrap dress.  This particular Marshalls, DVF, and I have a special relationship, lot of great chemistry.  “I’m on fire, NBA Jam style!” I thought.  The dress had one of those chirpy alarms on it.  Are you familiar?  Like basically if you graze the fabric, it shrieks and alerts everyone in the store that you’re looking at it.  Each time Billy's hand reached out to squeeze the dress in his chubby fists, I couldn't stop this loop of inner monologue as the dress chirped at me: “Hi, I’m handling an expensive dress, but I’m a good person.  I swear I’m not stealing it.  Please don’t think I’m stealing it.”  I blame my unwarranted/gratuitous guilt on Catholicism.

I speed strolled to the dressing room because you never know how much time there is before someone needs to pee or cry.  I showed the woman how many dresses I had, as you do at the Marshalls, and then the dress started screaming.  Not in its intermittent tweeting way, but more like full on car alarm.  This lady just looked at me.  Umm what’s the protocol here?  I handed you a dress, and now you’re staring at me.  I’m thinking I look like a criminal again, and now I feel like we’re ignoring a fire drill.  She reluctantly took the dress and somehow fixed the alarm.   Now I’m not shitting on this woman.  This was an equally annoying situation for her too, but she asked, “Do you still want to try the dress on?” 

“Umm, I do, yes.”  Should I not want to?  I feel weird about this whole thing now. 

“You can use this fitting room.”  She pointed to the big handicap space next to her command center.  My aforementioned sashaying turned into awkward shuffling.

I tried on the first couple frocks.  Mehh.  Then it was time for THE one.  I put it on and I was feeling pretty good about it.  Okay this might work.  This could actually make this situation all worth it.  And then Vivi dropped her Rapunzel toy.  As I bent down to get it, “WOOOOOO EEEEEEEE WOOOOOO EEEEEEE”.  I was now wearing the car alarm.  Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck this.  I took the dress off, threw it on the hanger, and immediately handed it outside the door to anyone that would take it.  Just get this shit out of my life!  Vivi and Billy were silent and just watching because what the fuck is really happening here?  This is shopping, Ma?  The woman’s replacement and a couple other customers were outside waiting and watching as I very UNeasily manhandled the stroller to get it out of the dressing room. 

“Ah ma’am this tag says you have 3 articles of clothing.” 

Oh Christ.  “Hear that alarm on the other end of the store?  That’s the third dress.”


Is there a question mark there?  YES!  Your to catch a shoplifter sensors are malfunctioning!!  And now I feel like I have to buy something to prove I’m not a felon. 

I grabbed three items, got in line, and hit the bricks.  Of course I timed this excursion horribly and I ended up in a beat the clock nap style situation with Billy.  I needed to race home, so he wouldn’t fall asleep in the car because I reeeeally needed the long nap to happen today.  I didn't have any anxiety at all when my gas light came on, traffic started to back up, and Billy’s eyes got heavier by the second.

“Vivi!  Keep Billy awake back there, please!”  I reached my arm back and squeezed his thigh rolls which makes him do this:

while Vivi yelled, “BILLLLLLL!  BILLLLLLL!  Conichiwa BILLL, Conichiwa!!" (She recently learned that word from an awful song getting some play on my Today’s Hits Pandora channel).

“Vivi, who are you?!”

“I’m a poopstick! Oh no wait, Mama, YOU’RE a poopstick, you're a poopstick, POOPSTICK!"

“What?  Okay, whatever.  As long as it’s keeping Billy awake.

It did, but the whole outing was an enormous waste of time and resources (veggie chips).  And I still have nothing to wear.  I remain dressless, and I now own a new beach towel, a feather print, and a piece of shit Finding Dory game.  And I’m a poopstick.  Things are really coming together over here.  So, if I see you this weekend and I have anything on that resembles appropriate wedding guest attire, will you silently raise a glass to yourselves, to me/Samm, and to all the other moms out there just trying to look like well-groomed, showered humans?!  'Cause it takes a lot of effort and stressful, unsuccessful, tiny outings to look this normal.

Yesterday I met my Hero.

Yesterday I met my Hero.

Say It Aint Snacktime

Say It Aint Snacktime