You know those kind of days that are so packed with stuff from your ‘To Do’ list that you just want them over before they start? …Well I had one of those days the Friday before last. On the ‘To Do’ list were: Laundry, ballet lessons, grocery shopping (involving stops at three different stores)… to name but a few.
I have mentioned this before, but it is nothing short of AGONY to get a herd of small children rolling out the door anywhere near on time when you are attempting to follow anything remotely resembling a time line. I had planned ahead, laid out clothes, packed a diaper bag with snacks, extra clothes, and distracting toys for Kyle, and I had packed up Jacqui’s dance bag for class. My purse, keys and grocery list were waiting on the counter - all ready to go.
I woke up to the sound of riotous laughter over the baby monitor. Not good. I opened our bedroom door and found that the diaper bag had been dragged up the stairs from its post near the door and lay ravaged in the hall - emptied of all contents that could in any way be construed as a necessity. I moved towards the villainous giggles and cautiously opened Kyle’s door.
Jacqui was sitting on the floor feeding Kyle goldfish crackers through the slats in his crib. “Kyle’s a monkey at da zoo an’ I’m da zoo feeder peeples.” Kyle interrupted with monkey shrieks for emphasis and fell back onto the crib mattress in a fit of hysterical giggles. Apparently the snacks would have to be repacked.
“Why are your ballet slippers in the monkey cage?”
“His feets was cold.”
“Ah. Why isn’t he wearing socks instead?”
” ‘Cause dey don’t fit so very well.” She held up her ballet tights. “Dere’s holes innem’ now. I wroted you a note on da gophery liss to buy some new ones…”
Not the ’socks’ I had meant. I pinched the bridge of my nose in a fruitless attempt to stave off an impending stress headache as I accepted the shredded tights. I told Jacqui to clean up the mess and get dressed.
Her eyes widened and with the appalled tone of a débutante that had just been ordered to take out the trash, she gasped, “Not me!!”
“What do you mean, ‘not me’? Why not you? You made the mess.”
“Why not?”
She rolled her eyes. Five years old and she rolled her eyes at me! “Cause Mom! Dey jess don’t! Dat’s wat Diva’s don’t NEVER do.” She arched an eyebrow and put a hand on a hip looking for all the world an imperious Diva Ballerina. “You should know dat word mom. Maybe you needta look it up in your dishy-o-nerry.”
Oh, the insufferable insolence!! I gasped and struggled to camouflage a giggle.
She stomped her little foot. “You don’t never ever laugh at Diva Ballerinas, Mommy! It’s jess NOT done.”
“It’s ‘not done?’ Where are you getting this stuff?”
She scowled and stomped again. “Dat jess means ya don’t never do it! It’s da Diva Coda Effiks!!”
I choked. “Code of Ethics? I don’t think Divas have ethics as a rule.”
“YES DEY DO!!! Effiks ARE rules, Mommy! You shooda know dat! I’m jess not gonna talk about dis ennymore!” Her chin jutted skyward as she marched down the hall with the indignant swoosh of a tutu pillaged from a previously packed dance bag.
I marched along behind and placed a surly, snapping little diva in time out. Apologies were eventually made, Jacqui discovered that diva’s do in fact clean up messes (in our house they do anyway), children were dressed, I was dressed, and breakfast was started.
I repacked snacks and the diaper bag, re-wrote the scribbled out section of my grocery list, added ‘ballet tights’ to the bottom of the list, re-packed Jacqui’s dance bag and began the search for my keys, which had been pilfered from my purse. I found them in one of Kyle’s favorite hiding places… the sound hole of my harp. Jacqui used to do the same thing, don’t ask me why. I quickly started a load of clothes and we finally shuffled out to the car.
We were barely on time to ballet class. Kyle decided this would be an excellent time to begin shrieking and screaming like a tormented banshee. He wasn’t in the mood to be distracted by any toy, no matter how entertaining. Toys were nothing but grenades to launch at Mom’s head. Mom - the big mean lady preventing him from running out the door and getting a better look at the big panel truck out in the parking lot. He pointed, wailing at the door… “Vroom, Vroom!!” Giant crocodile tears sliding down his baby cheeks as he signed ‘please’ and pointed, “Vroom, Vroom!!” towards the door. Kyle is completely obsessed with anything that has wheels and makes loud motor sounds. This includes planes, trains, cars, trucks, motorcycles, lawnmowers and even vacuum cleaners. He kept up the howling through the entire hour-long lesson. With about ten minutes to go, Jacqui came running out of the studio to sit scowling on the steps leading up to the studio office.
“What are you doing?” I asked her.
“Takin’ a rest.” She scowled and tipped her nose toward the ceiling.
“Why don’t you go back in and dance?”
“Cause! Ima Diva Ballerina, an’ diva’s need dair rest!” I heard parental sniggering behind me. They were gleefully giggling that it was my child and not theirs.
“Back in class… now!!” I hissed over Kyle’s shrieks. She scowled and folded her arms.
I narrowed my eyes and in a sawmill whisper began to count… “Jacqueline!! One…”
Kyle suddenly stopped bawling and pointed a finger at Jacqui with tiny shakes for emphasis… “Toooooooo!! No me me me feeee!!” The sniggering erupted into guffaws as my 18-month-old perfectly mocked my trademark phrase… “Don’t make me say three…”
I pulled down his emphatic little pointy finger and Jacqui skulked back into class casting baleful, diva-like stares in my direction after every pirouette. I could hardly wait for grocery shopping.
We loaded up the minivan to head to the first store. Can I just say that I HATE loading kids in and out of car seats? It makes me feel exhausted just thinking about it. The activity would be excellent practice for pro wrestlers. It’s ridiculous. Sticking a baby in a car seat is kind of like trying to thread a lump of squishy bread dough through a straw. Sticking an opinionated five-year-old with diva aspirations into a car seat is like trying to suit up a psychotic bobcat into rappelling gear. I can tell you that neither one is particularly enjoyable. One of many reasons I prefer to grocery shop late at night after the kids have gone to bed.
We get to the first store. A specialty grocery store where I have to go for some of Jacqui’s supplies for her Gluten-Free Casein-Free diet. Unfortunately, the store is of the hoity-toity variety. My kids don’t do hoity-toity very well. Sometimes blending in with the Wal-Mart crowd can even be a stretch. I take a deep breath and in we go… Kyle screaming the entire way through the parking lot in protest of my senseless deprivation of his quality time with all the wonderful ‘vroom vrooms’.
Jacqui immediately starts chatting up anyone who she can cajole into making eye contact with her. Some folks hear her and begin noticeably walking faster without turning around. One little old lady, polished and pampered to the ‘n’th degree, makes the mistake of smiling in Jacqui’s direction. Jacqui reels her in like a stunned trout. I avert my eyes and develop an all-consuming interest in organic radishes.
“Hi Lady!”
The lady smiles broader and walks closer. Noooo! Don’t fall for it! Runnnnnn!! Part of me wants to warn her but I don’t. I move in for a closer look at $4.79 a pound organic New Zealand Jazz apples.
“Ooooo! How old are you sweetheart?”
“I’m five. We need new punkins!”
“Oh, are you going to carve pumpkins with your Mommy?”
“We jess need new ones ’cause our old ones is dead now.”
“What?”
“Our old ones died. Dey was all black ‘an squishy wif alotta buggies innem… EWWWWW!!” Jacqui held her nose and waved her hand in front of her face wildly. Honestly. I don’t know why it is that the kid can’t ever seem to initiate a normal conversation.
The lady took several steps back and began feeling behind her for her cart, eyes transfixed on my child in helpless horror as Jacqui began to go into even more detail about moldy bug-infested pumpkins that we let sit too long before throwing out last year. Won’t be making that mistake again…
A few aisles over, a lady with a $50 manicure and a Dooney and Bourke handbag leaned in to talk baby talk with Kyle. He promptly blew a raspberry in her face. I offered her a tissue I had pulled out in preparation for the occasion and she declined with an appalled shake of her head as she careened around the end of the aisle in an elegantly frantic escape run.
In the moment that I was distracted by my inner ponderings of just how anyone could move that fast in high-heeled Jimmy Chou’s, Jacqui had disappeared. I wheeled back around the corner and reached the produce section again just in time to see her send an avalanche of oranges bouncing across the polished slate tiles. I stuffed her in the cart as she wailed that “Diva Ballerinas do NOT ride in shopping carts like babies!!” I started to count and Kyle once again finished my threat in mocking glee… “No me me me fee!” They both laughed together like madhouse inmates as I chased down $3.37 a pound organic oranges while the produce manager looked on with complete disdain.
We get through the checkout and I catch a pomegranate, two dragon fruits and a rambutan that Jacqui managed to sneak into the cart when I wasn’t looking. She begins wailing when I hand the rambutan back to the clerk.
“Nooo!!! Dat’s my new pet! She’s name is Fuzzy! Please… Give me back Fuzzy!”
I whisper in her ear threats of impending doom and she quiets to a hiccuping snuffle.
We pay and get to the door just as the heavens open up and begin pouring walls of water over our path to the car. We try to wait it out. Nope. We make a run for it. I forget to stuff Jacqui back into the cart and she makes a point of vigorously stomping in every puddle over two inches deep on the way to the car. I fling Jacqui in one side, slam the door, and then take Kyle to his side to begin the car seat wrestling match. They are finally buckled in.
The sun comes out as I lift up the first bag of groceries to place in the back of the van. And then I stomp a puddle in frustration as the bottom rips out of the chic, recycled paper bag. The handles stay helpfully attached to the bag’s top and I mutter to myself as I peer through the giant hole in the bottom. As we head to the next store, Jacqui perversely complains that she is all wet and cold. I explain to her that those are the consequences of Diva Ballerinas stomping in puddles without their rain boots.
“Mooooooomm!! Evvybody knows Diva Ballerina’s NEVER wear rain boots!”
Store #2: Another specialty grocers. Rewind and replay store #1 experience complete with rainstorm. Only this time substitute organic $1.20 a pound potatoes for the oranges. I ignored the cashier’s pressure-packed question, “Paper?” and insisted on plastic grocery bags. We unload the cart and more car-seat wrestling ensues.
The last store is clear across town. Jacqui cries at the top of her lungs the entire commute that her knees ache. She’s going through a growth spurt and has been having some pretty rough growing pains. She is howling for ‘pink medicine’ at the top of her lungs when we pull into the parking lot. Before going into the store, I check through the diaper bag for the bottle of ibuprofen. Not there. Of course not. It’s one of my necessity items. Why in the world would it possibly be where I put it? I explain that we will get some medicine in the store and load everyone into a nearby cart.
“Mommy? Why do my knees get so ouchy?”
“Because you’re growing really fast right now.”
“Am I growing really, really super fast?”
“Yes.”
“I will be very big soon?”
“Yes, soon.”
We straggle into the third store looking like half-drowned rats. This is one of those super stores. Groceries, hardware, clothes, you name it, it’s there. Everything, that is, except the hoity-toity gluten-free casein-free items on my list necessitating my first two stops. I head down the aisles stuffing items in the cart and checking off my list as quickly as possible. On the medicine aisle I snatch a bottle of ibuprofen off the shelf and give Jacqui a dose, setting the box aside to make sure I pay for it on the way out. We take a quick detour through the clothing section, past the lingerie, to where the socks and tights are kept. I stick two packs of pink dance tights in the cart and head for the check out.
I begin unloading the cart and am completely dumbfounded when I pull out a pink, lacey brassier.
“Ummm… Jacqueline? What is this?”
“Hel-oh-oh! Dat’s chess unner-wear Mom.”
“I know that. What is it doing in the cart.”
“Um… waitin’ to get paid for…”
The child is so doggone literal! I try again… “Why did you put it in the cart?” Should’ve known better than to ask that one too…
“Cause I need chess unner-wear.”
“No. No you don’t.” I hand it to the clerk and her shoulders are shaking with silent giggles.
“But, EXCUSE me! Yes I DO need dat Mom!”
“Why?”
“Cause! You said I was growin’ really fast. “
“Your legs and feet are! Not your chest…”
“Yes it is! See?” And she yanked up her shirt to demonstrate the imperative nature of the need before I could do a thing about it. “I really, really need chess unner-wear!”
I tugged her shirt back down. “No. You really, really don’t.”
She started bawling. I started counting. Kyle finished with a flourish, “No me me me fee!”
The entire line behind us erupted in laughter as I took our receipt. Jacqui shouted in indignation as we wheeled to the exit, “You muss not laugh! Ima Diva Ballerina! You muss never laugh at Diva Ballerinas!!!!”
And I learned something else you must never do when it comes to Diva Ballerinas. NEVER take them grocery shopping. And I mean never. Ever.
parenting children motherhood kids humor Christian funny ballet class ballet stay at home mom shopping things kids say gluten-free gluten free GFCF SAHM
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