Ponderous thoughts, stranger approved.

I took Pierce with me grocery shopping tonight. Any time I take just one child with me, they think it’s the best thing ever. They get chatty, giggly, and just love our “date” in the produce aisle. Pierce isn’t any different.

He’d holler “Dada! Dada!” and I’d say “No! Momma!” and he’d laugh and laugh and laugh. Repeat that about fifty times and you have a pretty good idea of what our shopping trip looked like.

After we’d just finished the exchange, yet again, a woman came around the corner and joined me in the toilet paper aisle. Taking in Pierce’s belly laugh, she commented how happy he was and said I must be a wonderful momma to have such a happy baby. “I bet he never cries,” she said. I couldn’t help myself. I snorted.

But as we walked away, I couldn’t help but think on her words. (A trip with one child to the grocery store allows for this. Thinking. What a concept.) Is happy children really what we’re after as mothers? As long as baby doesn’t fuss, I must be properly parenting him? Really, is that all I’m after?

Definitely not. Happy isn’t what life is all about. Being content, on the other hand, holds a a pretty good status. Being thankful, that’s a good one. Understanding our place, our God, our need for Him, that’s what I’m after when I teach my children. Ponderous thoughts.

But when Pierce tired of my outrage at his calls for his daddy a few aisles later, I took him out of the cart and hushed him. It made him happy. It made me wonder. How much parenting do I do just for appearances, and how much is in pursuit of a grander, better thing?

Then, I came home, put the baby to bed and the groceries away, and lost the quiet to be able to finish a thought without interruption. It was lovely while it lasted. Maybe, hopefully, I will parent more purposefully tomorrow, in pursuit of godliness, not stranger approval.

Math brain.

Amount of time it takes for Pierce to shatter the glass plate at the restaurant on the floor after the waiter, who most obviously does not have a one year old, places it in front of him: 1.3 seconds.

Best part about going out to eat on your birthday: not having to clean up the floor under the table.

Number of heads of hair trims I gave on this Sunday morning: 3.

Number of hair ponies and bobby pins used for hair does this morning: 14.

Number of minutes Pierce lasted this morning before going back to bed after staying up later than he should have last night: 38.

Times I’ve had to wash sheets for wet sleepers this week: 1. Progress!

Times I’ve had to scold for mud all over the bathroom: 4. Some dear child is digging a tunnel in the garden. The same dear child can sit in it and disappear up to said child’s chin. Impressive. Dirty, but impressive.

Number of buckling and unbuckling seat belts during out two hour shopping trip on
Monday: 63.

Yesterday I hit my tipping point. The collective number of years I’ve mothered have officially reached the same number of years I’ve been alive. It only goes up exponentially from here.

Happy birthday to me.

Today is my 29th birthday. It’s a weird age. I feel like I have one more year to cling to my twenties.

Ruby made it all better, though. She informed me I was almost thirty, and then turned to Sterling and asked him what comes after 30. When he told her 31 comes next, she gasped, spun around in genuine concern, and exclaimed, “Oh no! You’re almost dead!”

Sterling gave me jewelry. I’m now sporting a matching ring and bracelet set. He made them out of twist ties from the bread bags. The ring… let me just warn you the folly of wearing such a beautiful ring during a certain personal hygiene moment after using certain facilities. It’s a little… scratchy.

Hello, frailty.

For a long time, I’d been immune to poison ivy. I could pull it with my bare hands without issue – and I did. Then last summer, I got it into my head to pull all of the poison ivy around our lilacs. I pulled a lot of poison ivy that day.

Immunity over. Apparently, overdosing such things leads to irritation, one way or the other. Since then, I’ve refrained from touching the stuff. Those two weeks of misery, compounded by a nearly-due Pierce and summer heat making a pregnancy insufferable as it was cured me of any temptation.

Time makes you dumb. You forget.

So last weekend, when the brush that once was likely beautiful but now was an overgrown mess, complete with now-dead but not-dormant poison ivy beckoned me to do something about it, I put on a pair of gloves and dug in.

Memory jogged.

It’s a strange realization to find out that a plant can do such damage that I’m itching and scarred and feeling like a padded room is my best option. How weak and frail am I? I just got knocked on my tush by a three leafed plant that isn’t even visible for it’s winter dormancy.

Shopping fail.

I tried a new idea for shopping trip chaos organization.

It was the worst trip we’ve had in a long, long time.

Does that mean it was a major fail or do we try this again next time and hope it was just adjusting to a new routine?!

Some lady, under her breath, muttered at me, as we were blocking traffic from both directions and no one was moving any which way despite my attempts to spur someone, anyone, to move out of the way, “Oh good grief. Honey, you need HELP.” I did the best I could. I grinned at her in my most “I so totally have this under control. Whatever for?” expression and marched off to find the bananas.

I haven’t decided if we’ll try that again. It was good in theory, though.

Say what?!

Her sentence began, “Momma, if it’s vegetarian’s day…”

I cringed. “Honey, it’s not vegetarians day.”

Her older, wiser sister piped up, “It’s veterinarian's day.”

I shook my head, trying not to laugh, and most definitely not going to end this conversation with the truth until I heard all of their scenarios.

“Vergarians?”

“No! It’s veteranians!”

Still, no.

Finally, one dear daughter eliminated the unnecessary syllables and solved the dilemma.

Happy Veteran’s day, folks. At least the girls knew what it was all about, even if the name eluded them.

“What color slipcover do you think would be best?”

“I don’t care.”

I bet he does…

“They have a lime green one.”

“Okay. I care. NOT lime green.”

See, I knew he cared.

I made a Pomegranate Jell-O recipe the other day. We all ended up picking out the pomegranate arils and eating the Jell-O. Sterling was unimpressed with the sorting required. “Next time, can you just make it without the pomegranates?” Sure, honey. They call that Jell-O with a can of pineapple. I can do that.

Sold my Jumperoo this morning. Made $13 off the price I paid for it, and I used it for two kids. It made me think I should hit more rummage sales, buying things to sell. Then I remembered the price of gas. Or not.