I met one of those moms I fully hate.(you know, just when I was on the brink of salvaging some shred of dignity.) She was skinny, which, while in and of itself isn't that horrible, no one should look that freakin' good after squirting out a couple of kids, there should be some sort of recognition for the 9 months your body carried life, you know, like saggy boobs or a gunt.
They should billboard a woman's "after baby" body as birth control for teenage girls. What girl in her right mind would want to have sex if she knew she would end up with an episiotomy and cottage cheese ass?
Anyway, she had the perfect shade of blonde hair (sans the gnarly roots and greys I have been known to occasionally sport) and worst of all her kids sat quietly in the shopping cart. (Let me be clear though, my kids were not at first glance behaving like little assholes, hers just had that unholy angelic look about them that scares the hell out of me) It's a little like stepping into a Stephen King novel when you come across these creepy "children of the corn" and their Ritalin induced silence.
We of course smile like idiots at each other and do a quick judgemental scan of the others cart, and while we are both stopped in the frozen food aisle, she is clearly picking out Organic Brussel Sprouts, and I'm trying to decide which flavour of Pizza Pop would be best. There is no need to panic, I assure you that my kids do actually eat fruit and vegetables, but no one should be exposed to Brussel Sprouts. EVER.
Obviously the reason I don't have washboard abs like that bitch is probably because I have opted for Pizza Pops over Brussel Sprouts, then upon further contemplation decide I would rather have jelly belly then give up the magic that is Pizza Pops. It's not like I've been huffing spray paint, I just love me the occasional Pizza Pop.....and maybe a little vodka, but that's all whole other post.
Now, of course, because I am within spitting distance of this vision of motherly perfection, it seems only logical that this would be the opportune time for one of my kids to pass from complacent shopper to total psychopath. You know, like when they start by saying "mom" every half second, while your daydreaming about saucy, cheesy goodness. Then they clearly lose their minds and take a swing at you, pulling you from your revelry and forcing you to pay attention to them. Had we been in an aisle without witnesses, I would have quietly given her shit, and returned the fruit snacks to some wayward shelf.
Instead, Blondie is eyeing me suspiciously for signs I am about to lay the smack down and clearly because children all have an "I am secretly evil" gene, my kid continues her ranting lunacy despite the stink eye and whispered threats to pull off Barbie's head if she doesn't keep it down. I push my cart farther down the aisle, casting a glance behind me to bust Blondie with a douche bag smirk on her overly glossed lips. While dropping the C-bomb in front of the kids would be inappropriate, even for me, I can taste it's victory burning in the back of my throat. I manage to swallow it down and walk away.
The realization that Blondie was so concerned with how she looked, that she wasted her time judging me was a little bit of joy to the otherwise mundane task of grocery shopping.
I am far from perfect, my kids, while perfect to me, may not be your cup of tea. I can live with that. I don't know about you, but the fact that no matter what my kids are loved, fed, clothed and cared for should be your only judgement of me, and I of you, even if you do insist on wearing skinny jeans and heels to the supermarket.
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