In theory, it could have been a lovely evening for the four of us. But Mother of the Year over here forgot to pack snacks. And diapers.
Really, the 12 minute car ride itself should have made us turn around: Little Homie spent most of it screaming like a pig gettiing raped in the ass, but it was Saturday night in LA, and no matter what, I was determined that C and I would hit the town.
We screech to a halt mid-whine -- "Mamaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa meeee boboooooooooooooooooob. Mamaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee boooooooooooooob" -- is on perpetual repeat courtesy of M. Yes she is still nursing. Welcome to my National Geographic Magazine nightmare.
After we park and get out of the car, C holds M's hand and I carry Little Homie under one arm while pushing the pink Snap N Go with the other because God forbid he should sit in his stroller like a normal baby. C and I walk through the parking lot as though it were a landmine full of hidden dangers we could only half anticipate. And thankfully, C is a total badass when it comes to wrangling a toddler - we met while teaching preschool, and I've always admired the way she talks to children. She manages to keep them safe while empowering them - it's a tricky balance that I'm always trying to master.
As soon as we get to Barnes and Noble, M perks up. "See see book! See see book!" she chirps as she takes off running. C runs after her, and I run after C. And then Little Homie starts screaming again - that nails-on-a-chalkboard shriek that makes me want to stick a screwdriver through both ears. So, I ditch the stroller and purse with C, and slip off to the bathroom to feed the boy. Yes, I actually nurses in a scuzzy-ass public bathroom. Sitting on a toilet. It's special bonding time for us.
Mid-suck and mid-stream, I think I hear C say "no, the escalator is not a safe place" so I pull Little Homie off the tit, tuck myself away, zip up my pants (If you judge me, I will squirt you in the eye) and I bolt out of the bathroom. With Little Homie squawking and squirming under my arm, I scan the children's book area, but M and C are no where to be seen, and my heart starts beating like a tom tom. I hear my cellphone chirp -- that tinny, mechanical rendition of Hava Nagila I downloaded for $2.95. Since my phone was supposed to be in my purse, and since my purse was supposed to be with C, I follow the sound until I find my phone lying next to the Harry Potter books. "What the fuck?" I say in my not-so-quiet voice, while another mama shoots me a dirty look. "No, really. How the hell did that get there?" I ask, teetering on the edge of hysteria as worst-case-scenarios -- most of them involving alien abduction -- flicker through my mind. Another dirty look from a different mama.
So, with the dexterity of a stoned Sumo Wrestler, I bend down, grab the phone, and notice my wallet lying a few feet away, and while I reach for that I drop my cell phone. And then as I reach for that, my nursing bra unhooks, and my boob flops out. Hold up: This isn't the Superbowl and I'm not Janet Jackson. Alas. Still, there is only so much you can do while holding a wriggly six-month-old, so with my teeth, I grab the clasp of the nursing bra, and somehow, tuck myself back in. Then, I stick my cellphone in my mouth, grab my wallet and bounce Little Homie on my hip as I follow a trail of several other items -- a pack of chewing gum, a note pad, a pen -- fallen from my purse. But, my terror mounting, I don't even bother to pick them up.
While the rational part of me knows that M is probably perfectly safe with my responsible and loving friend, I still feel sweat prickling under my arms. My mind is swimming - no, drowning - in Very Scary Thoughts, and I can't stop hyperventilating. (By the way, hyperventilating takes a lot of skill when you have a cellphone stuck between your teeth, but I've got the whole panic attack thing down so I'm good. But then the phone starts ringing, and I can feel Hava Nagila vibrating through my teeth.)
"FUUUUCK!" I yell, which comes out a lot more like "FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUH" But the tween looking at the Twighlight Books, knows exactly what I said.
"Ooooh, you said a bad word."
"Tuh shih" I answer.
I drop the wallet, snatch the phone out of my mouth, and answer.
"We're by the Self-Help books," C tells me.
Figures.
"Oh, and I think she might have pooped." She adds.
I put the phone back in my mouth, pick up the wallet, and hurry to the psychobabble section.
I smell them before I see them: But never before has baby shit smelled so wonderful, because all that matters is C and M are safe -- M is in C's arms, and my empty purse is dangling at an absurd angle from C's wrist.
"Don't ask." she laughs.
"Hi mama! Poop!" M says. "See see Elmo book" she adds while handing me a small cardboard Sesame Street book.
"Ok, where's the nearest bar," I announce as I belly up to the cash register with Elmo book M chose. "Mama needs a drink."
"Do you really need a drink?" The clerk asks snidely as he rings up the purchase.
"Oh no. What I really needs is some crystal meth," I say "But I'll settle for a beer."
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