Mostly-Mommy

A morning walk is not the best idea on trash day.

(EDITED: Mike needed clarification about what I meant so here it is.

A morning walk on trash day means stinky air, a sidewalk blocked by garbage cans, and a toddler who stops every 10 feet to ask “Dat?” and I say “That’s a trash can,” or “That’s a bag of garbage,” or “That’s a pile of garbage,” or “That’s another bag of garbage.” You get the idea.)

Gah. I repeat, Gah.

This kid is driving us batty these days. He has officially become “Toddler” and is a force to be reckoned with, and feared with the intensity of a thousand fiery suns for no one knows when “Toddler” will strike. He is mysterious and terrifying. BOW BEFORE HIS ENDLESS RAGE. BOWWWWWW!

For the first time a few days ago we actually had to leave a restaurant because of the shrieking, the incessant, hysterical shrieking. We’ve had to leave several other fine establishments before because of an errant tantrum but this was the first official meltdown of this magnitude. I threw $10 on the table and apologized profusely as we hurried out of the restaurant. We were frustrated and embarrassed. We were hungry. We were ANGRY.

And then things took a large step from irritating to horrifying. While trying to unload two kids and all their accouterments from our double stroller I watched helplessly as it rolled off the curb and onto it’s side, with my tiny baby STILL IN IT. I saw it in slow motion, but thankfully it actually happened in slow motion — very low impact thank god. However that did nothing to make me feel less guilty or stop me from sobbing the entire trip back to Kansas City.

Days like that make us think two is PLENTY.

Dear Dirty Hippies,

I am passing up putting you “On Notice” and you are going straight to the “Dead to Me” list. You, Dirty Hippies, with your long hair and your friends who bring a truckload of bags every garbage day and your Child Protective Services visits are officially on my bad side. You bought the dremmel tool at our garage sale and seemed perfectly pleasant so I gave you a chance, but that chance expired when you pulled this crap.

“What crap?” you say? The crap where a package is delivered to your house and you leave it sitting on your front porch for a MONTH. A package that was intended for your neighbors across the street. A package that contained many beautiful hand-knitted items that someone spent a lot of time on. A package that has the sender’s NAME and PHONE NUMBER on it. Oh, and also a package that has your neighbor’s NAME and PHONE NUMBER on it. And instead of calling either of those numbers or the delivery service or WALKING IT ACROSS THE STREET for chrissake you just left it there in the rain until one day my dear husband tracked it down, came to ask about it, saw it there, and took it.

Whatever happened to the Dirty Hippie motto about peace and love and all that crap? Apparently now all Dirty Hippies stand for is laziness, smelling like butt, and letting your dog poop in our yard.

Nice.

Signed,

Your Friendly Neighbor Across the Street Who is Totally calling CPS on You the Next Time We See Your Kid Climb Out of the Window Again.