It all started with a rock.
Okay, it didn’t start with the rock. I cannot let the rock be my scapegoat.
My weekly trip to the grocery store combined with a trip to BJs. Perhaps a bit much, but I’ve made it work before. Every minute accounted for so that I would be back in time to get Drew off the bus, my Eeyore child as of late.
Lydia insisted on nurturing Drew’s pet rock which I had most awesomely painted to look like a guinea pig. As much as I resent kindergarten homework that is more of a showcase of the kindergarten mother’s creativity, I confess that this pet rock rocked, folks.
She carried this thing around the store as if it were the real deal, petting it and telling me in a sweet baby voice how cute it was as I confirmed but encouraged her to move her feet a little more quickly.
It all went south when we passed the deli without getting the free slice of cheese. How dare I. Anger ensued on her part…and then on my part when she kept on throwing a fit during the rest of the trip and the way out the door to the car, for some reason not getting it that we’d be standing in the deli line at BJs and I’d give her all the free slices she wanted then. I was willing to part with a 1/3 lb at this point.
Throw the groceries in the car, race off to BJs 10 minutes away, frazzled and sweaty but on track.
And, then she said it, “where’s my guinea pig?”
And, my heart sank. Seriously? Did we leave the stupid rock at the grocery store in the cursed car cart? Seriously?
Forget BJs. We gotta get back in the car and go track down Bob the guinea pig. And, for some reason, Lydia no longer cared about her brother’s cute dear pet. It was all about the cheese. And, she screamed. The. Entire. Way. Back. To. The. Store. Because of not getting her cheese slice. All while I’m fuming that I’m breaking speed limits to return to the store parking lot I just left to retrieve a rock.
Cart no longer there. Illegally park. Into the store. With upset 3 year old. And, apparently a very upset looking me since I nearly ran into someone on my way in. Oh, hello, pastor’s wife. Apparently I needed to be greeted with “Do you need help?”
I can tell you that there’s nothing quite like telling customer service to call you if someone turns in a painted rock. And, nothing quite like racing around a very large grocery store with an angry toddler, canvassing every aisle on a hunt for a mom using a car cart with a child cuddling a rock named Bob that did not belong to them. I even perused the landscaping in the parking lot in the off chance that a cart boy mistook Bob the guinea pig for a commonplace landscaping rock and threw it aside.
Lydia was angry about the missing cheese. And, I was angry about the missing Bob. She was having a fit. And, frankly, so was I. I may not have been as loud as she was. But, I was just as angry. Angry at myself for letting her bring the stupid thing in the first place. Angry at myself for not making sure we had it when we left. And angry at her for making things hard today and losing something that Drew cared about and not caring at all that she did. I held her a bit tighter. My words were short. My face was not nice. I resented. Ugly, ugly, ugly.
And, a few hours later, as Drew plays with other things never asking for the rock—and maybe never asking about it again—I’m feeling overwhelmed with my own ickyness and having a hard time believing that I’m the mother Jesus loves.
Thankful for afternoon naps and a few moments of quiet when I can catch my breath and then start over.
