I know the looks.
I’m navigating an aisle in the supermarket, holding a small hand while steering a full-to-the-brim shopping cart with the other – masterfully, I’m so inclined to add. My other child is toddling behind, spinning in circles with his arms out, just barely missing knocking the rows of laundry soap off of their shelves before he finally notices that he’s fallen behind and follows. Repetitive, squeaky requests for a treat while we are in the check out line. Beaming faces asking if we can stop at the park on the way home for “five minutes.”
I know the bewildered faces of people who watch me while I’m at the store, fumbling my way through shelves, trying to swipe my debit card and keep tabs on two speed-lightning kids. It’s a look of pity. “Poor Momma!” looks. I get the well-meaning comments sometimes from strangers. I may banter back and forth…
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