High Score!

While enjoying a luxurious weekend of breezy 107+ degree temperatures in our exotic hometown, the boys and I had to get creative with our activities.  We attempted to do anything that involved NOT going outside.
We went to see Brave, which was awesome.  I highly recommend it.  I do not, however, highly recommend getting the large, overfilled bucket of popcorn if you are sitting next to a hyperactive 5-year-old, because I guaran-damn-tee you that his skinny little butt will not hold down his movie theater seat, and when he folds up in it like an accordion, his feet will kick the bucket, sending popcorn flying all over the theater.  Of course, this is merely a hypothetical scenario—we would never be so crass.  Pfft!
We went to Burger King.  I ordered two kids’ meals and nothing else because I was trying to inconspicuously smuggle in my Wendy’s salad, which is way better than any salad you could find at Burger King.  The little cash register guy asked me, “Nothing for you?”  And instead of just letting me say, “No, thank you,” Jadon piped up, “She doesn’t need nuthin’—she’s got a salad right there!”  Awesome.  Yep, smuggling it in right here.  Thanks, kid.  Luckily, we did not get thrown out, but in an act of motherly revenge, I made them actually eat their meals before they got to play.  Ha!  Take that!  (Ok, well maybe they had to eat part of their meals before playing.  Who am I kidding?  We were there for the gerbil trails.)
We went to the grocery store.  Holy Mother of God, did we go to the grocery store!  In fact, I’m pretty sure that Hy-Vee may be closed for the week in order to recover from our little jaunt, but hey, when it’s that hot outside, a trip to the milk section sounds like great fun.  If I said, “Get out from in front of the cart,” one time, I swear I said it half a billion times, yet they still kept sticking their little feet right under the wheels of the cart.  (It’s wrong or immoral or something to purposely run over them, right?)
I said “No!” to about 50 different varieties of cereal and chips and cookies, and I gave in to getting cold Lunchables for dinner, because I’m an awesome cook, and, “Voilà, kids!  Mommy made Lunchables for dinner!”
Then, drum roll please, we got to the produce aisle.  Now, before I go on, let me just say, that I have skipped over numerous threats of early bedtimes, removal of electronics, taking away of desserts, bodily harm, etc…in the many aisles leading up to the produce section.  You can only imagine the horror, and I can’t bring myself to thrust it upon you.  Suffice it to say I felt the need to place a suggestion in the store suggestion box for a Xanax dispenser at the midway point, somewhere near the cereal aisle, so that parents may cope with the entire shopping ordeal.
So here there we were, at the produce aisle, finally.  The last aisle.  The light at the end of the tunnel.  I was peacefully gathering my apples, a sweet bunch of Granny Smiths, when I heard the commotion.  And the first thing I thought was, “OMG, whose kid is THAT??!  And where in the holy hell is that child’s mother?!”
When suddenly it came to me.  “OMG, that is MY kid!  And I am THAT kid’s mother!”
And there stood my sweet little two-horned monster, Jadon, having just recently released an apple, in skee-ball fashion, up and over the triangular mountain of produce.  Having cleared the top of the mountain, the apple flew into the air, thereby earning a, “High Score!” from my child.  Holy Fuckballs.  (Is it wrong to beat children with celery stalks?)
So I bought the bruised apple and loudly proclaimed, “We don’t throw apples!”  (When, clearly, we DO throw apples.)  And we are going to have homemade applesauce soon.  Or mushy apple slices.  Or something like that.  And when the hell is my husband coming home?!

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