18 October, 2011

Milkin' It For All It's Worth

With the bug, even the most mundane of tasks becomes an adventure.
  • The planning phase
  • The gearing up phase
  • The crossing of the threshold
  • The initial execution of the plan
  • The point of no return
  • The total revision of the plan
  • The break in the action
  • The regrouping for accomplishing the main goal
  • Victory
  • The return home
  • The nap
Last week the bug and I had to go get milk and eggs.  To help justify making an hour round trip for milk and eggs, we decided to tack on a trip to the credit union and, consequentially, at least another half-hour.

Allow me to explain the poor man's sound machine.  Now, I'm sure there are CD's out there of recorded white noise.  I could probably even find an app.  However, when you're already driving and the WubbaNub has been mysteriously flung to the far reaches of the backseat much to the dismay of said WubbaNub's proxy, then finding the nearest music store and illegally fumbling with one's phone doesn't help.  (By the way, I understand the safety reasons for requiring that the child be placed in a rear-facing car seat in the back.  But, do they understand the hazard?)  So, in the aforementioned situation, seems the best thing to do is to tune into a frequency that doesn't pick up any radio signals and crank that puppy.

Right.  So.   Milk and eggs.  Everything was going smoothly.  Banking was a breeze (actually a credit union, but no one says "credit unioning."  At least not yet.), but the poor bug is a little over everything made for an infant having an impressive set of buckles pulling on nylon straps.  She's a good sport about it, but every girl has her limits.  Well, she reached hers just a few aisles away from the eggs.  That's when I remembered the WubbaNub was still in the car.

You know?  For about three seconds, I actually thought the fussing might sort itself out.  It's that feeling you get when you're foolish enough to think that a pot couldn't possibly boil over, the fizz couldn't possibly spill over the edge of the glass, or the toilet water will magically go back down once it reaches the edge.  No... she couldn't possibly go into a three-stage meltdown (limbs out, face red, quivering voice cry).

Of all the fathers pushing their three (almost four) month old baby girls around a grocery store at two in the afternoon on a Friday, I have to be the one that everybody looks at like I just snagged the cart and kid and tried to break for the door before the distracted mother knew what hit her.  So, I smiled at the crowd, unbuckled, unbuckled, and unbuckled, loosened the nylon so it wouldn't scrape against her neck and make matters worse, and scooped her up into a hug to look over my shoulder.

As if I pushed a button on a toy doll, she completely changed moods.  I measured the integrity of the eggs with one arm while she flirted and smiled at anyone still looking her way.  She kept racking up the compliments as I made my way to the milk.  Wouldn't you know the first gallon was all squashed on top and I had one arm to move it and get the unsquashed one from behind it?  The bug didn't mind.  She was too busy pulling a Palin.

Not wanting to press my luck, I dismissed the idea of getting any other grocery items to justify the gas.  She "helped" me zip through the self-check, no-bag it, and we walked back to the car.  She didn't fuss too much about getting strapped down again.  We drove up the coastline home to the dulcet sounds of static.  Mission accomplished.

This week:  I'm using those damn eggs.

No comments: