Every weekday morning starts the same. I have goals for the day -- what I'd really like to get done before Mike gets home from work, usually around 6:30, when I escape to the gym for my only alone time. And then there are the minimum goals I can realistically hope to achieve, and that's on a good day. Most days I'm lucky if Michael Alexander naps for 20 minutes, giving me that much time to hustle even as I would like to join him in a nap. Writing, even answering emails, is a constant challenge as he wants to pound on the keys as soon as he sees the laptop open. I steal away what little time I can in the minutes he'll entertain himself in the jump-a-roo. Like right now. I am typing as quickly as I can because I am determined today to write something, anything.
The day started with a shardstorm. I placed Michael Alexander in the jump-a-roo as I ran to the bathroom to pee. (Little luxuries that stay-at-home moms cherish. I have become a master at holding it to keep toilet visits to a minimum.) I had just unzipped my jeans when I heard a colossal crash that rattled me to the core. I can see and hear Michael Alexander from the bathroom, so I knew he was fine, but I still dreaded the source of that scary sound. The light fixture on the kitchen ceiling had thundered down, showering the black tiles with shards of white polished glass. Some pieces were large enough to scoop up by hand, most had to be swept up and a powder had to be very carefully removed. The kitchen floor and parts of the counter and stove were covered in what looked like a dusting of snow. Tiny shards and some powder made it into the living room. I carefully stepped into a pair of flip flops just outside the kitchen every few minutes to soothe Michael Alexander as I scoured the floors for every last razor sharp shard. It took a full hour just to be sure all visible powder was discarded. I sliced off a sliver of my right middle finger as I carefully pulled a chunk of glass from under the dishwasher. I've managed to keep Michael Alexander out of the kitchen all day. That's a tall order, as he insists on following me in there and enjoys searching for any remnants and pushing the dishawasher buttons and opening the oven door. He's so tall that at 9 months, he can reach higher than most 18-month-olds. To be sure, I scrubbed the floor and the oven and the counters. That called for a another series of sweeps to distinguish between the clean shine and stubborn shards.
Shardstorm over, save for the particles I missed and the ongoing battle to keep Michael Alexander out of the tiny kitchen he finds so fascinating. As much as I dread grocery shopping ahead of another threat of stormageddon, I had to get to get food and water just because we're one of those unusual Manhattan households that prepares most of its meals despite the endless delivery options. We went to Whole Foods first, but too many staples, like the sports cap electrolyte enhanced water, were sold out, so we returned to slippery sidewalks and headed to Trader Joe's. Trader Joe's in Union Square, unlike its sister stores in suburbia, is cramped and always crowded beyond capacity. I was relieved that there was no line outside, as that often stretches half an avenue while people wait to clear the entrance. Trader Joe's is boring. Boring for anyone, especially an extremely active 9-month-old confined to a stroller for what seems like an endless, sluggish journey snaking the narrow aisles. Michael Alexander is such a happy baby, so animated and engaging he earns the adoration of child-hating hipsters. Shoppers are rabid and packed like sardines. There are no pleasantries. Michael Alexander isn't accustomed to such a somber scene. He's used to constant compliments and a sea of smiles. Understandably, he got a little cranky as we weaved our way around the weary sourpusses and sad saps. As always, there is plenty of carriage slamming. There's always a shopper who repeatedly rams her cart into the backs of my ankles as if that will expedite her trip to the register. The woman behind us on line today was particularly nasty. The bitter old hag hates babies. I could sense this even before her verbal assault, as my radar was honed in my years as a bitter young hack who had little tolerance for crying babies in crowded stores. As the hag slammed her push cart into my back, she knocked a package of ground turkey from the stroller. It landed near her feet. "Please, remove that immediately," she barked. "I cannot be exposed to meat. I cannot handle meat." I said nothing as I retrieved the warehouse sealed package from the ground, inches away from her filthy rubber rain boots. Meantime, her face was closer to the shelves of beef than her boots were to the single package of poultry. "Disgusting," she mumbled. "Children should not have contact with meat." Hmmm ... I was a vegetarian, briefly, as a younger person. We all make mistakes, go through phases. If she's so adamant about her problem, err, I am mean choice, perhaps she could avoid stores that stock the flesh she so fears. Even the vegans that nibble away at their bowls of overpriced leaves and legumes from the trough where these items sit all day turning every shade of food poisoning don't scoff at the carnivores flanking them at the Whole Foods checkout line. Maybe it's because they're technically stealing (and breaking state law) by chowing down on the food that's priced, and supposed to be purchased, by the pound. In any case, this hag's anti-meat madness was above and beyond the worst offenders I've encountered in the mixed (omnivores and other uber eating races) retail company. As if her veg venom were not vile enough -- or perhaps my lack of response annoyed her -- the hag sought to set me off by swearing at my sweet son. "Ugh!" she launched into tirade No. 2. "Uuuugh! Why is that child here?!" Again, I ignored her. "Children should not be allowed here! There is no room for children!" My stubborn silence sent her seething, it seems. She pulled out her ancient flip phone and greeted the unlucky number with another, louder round of "Ughs!" "I am at Trader Joe's," she grumbled into the telecom artifact. "There is this woman, with a baby, throwing meat on the floor!" Lady, if my baby or I were throwing meat, you wouldn't be standing. Yet it was my very calm, my refusal to acknowledge her tedious tirade, that really ticked her off. She groaned and groaned some more. "This line is taking forever. This is bullshit! This woman with the baby! This is what nannies are for. To stay home with the babies!" Really? Nannies are for stay-at-home moms who need to grocery shop solo? Fascinating! I am pretty sure the uber rich who afford such leisure and luxury need not shop on their own, at Trader Joe's. We made it to a register, where we were greeted by the charming cashier. He is named Mike, like so many a kind-hearted and quick-witted man. "How was your shopping experience?" he asked with a smirk. "I've had better days." Curious, he quizzed me for more. I summed up the hag's harassment. "Want me to get a manager? We can ban people like that from the store." I thanked him, but explained that this hag's misery was self-inflicted punishment enough, and the manager need not endure her fury.
Having a baby changes everything. Back in my pre-mommy days. Back when I was a bitter young hack, I'd never have kept shut and I'd likely have been banned when the other oldy-moldy meanies joined forces to counter my youthful rage against the hag. Today I am just happy to escape the hag's shitstorm, all that after surviving the shardstorm, at least relatively unscathed. All this and I thought today's super struggle was supposed to be a snowstorm. New Englanders and other non-New Yorkers, I shudder to say that I might have -- just for today -- preferred shoveling snow to shielding my son and self from the shards and shit.
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