Recently, I dropped by a local discount store to buy some extra large training pants for my two-year old son's extra large behind. While heaving my unfathomably heavy bag of tot junk onto my shoulder, I whipped open my van's sliding door. Immediately, Tiffany, my four-year old began her high-pitched incessant chatter about the Chuck E. Cheese tickets she hid in my sock drawer and how we will have to dig those out so we can buy a "boingy thingy" next time we go there. Without even stopping for breath, she manically informed me that, "Last time we were there Daddy's cheese fell off his pizza, there was a boy spitting in the climbing tubes and why was that girl playing air hockey in her socks? Yakkity yak, yak, yak."

Through it all she was standing ON my feet. I kept shoving her out of the way as I attempted to wrestle Tessa, my 17-month old from the seatbelt on which she had a death grip. Tiffany just sprang back onto my feet like a rubber band, despite my constant shoving.

Two-year old Jake was in the far back seat hollering, "Lemme out maaaaaah." I took a break from wrangling Tessa to release Jake. When I returned, I found her completely back in her belts and SHRIEKING because I would not let her rebuckle the chest latch.

Finally, I bellowed at Tiffany, "Get your tail up on the sidewalk and hush UP for two seconds." Miraculously, I managed to loose Tessa from the spit-up stained rat's nest of buckles and straps.

Meanwhile, Jake lay down underneath the back seat, whispering to his Matchbox car. My ritual chant ensued, "Jake-get-outta-the-car-Jake-come-on-come-on-come-ON. Jake-get-outta-the-van-hurry-hurry-HURRY-UP."

Still enraged and screaming in fury, Tessa began slapping me in the face and scratching my arm to ribbons as she squirmed violently on my hip. My 300 pound bag slid down my other arm by the rough leather straps. Snapping my last thread of patience I screeched, "JAKE GET OUTTA THE VAN AND STAND OVER THERE BY TIFFANY!"

Sensing I was at the edge, Tessa quieted herself. In slow motion, Jake slithered out of the van, muttering to himself. He hit the pavement clutching a plethora of junk he'd mined from underneath the seat. He then stood there motionless, gazing into space.

I began my second chant, "Excuse-me-Jake-I-gotta shut-the door-Jake-get-outta-the-way-Jake. You're-in-the-way-Jake-move-your-bum-Go-go-go-GO-GO-NOW!" Hoarding his treasures, he slowly inched toward the walk where Tiffany was spinning and jumping around like a crazed puppy, howling Disney tunes like an American Idol reject.

Soaked in Tessa's drool, I salvaged the contents of my bag from beneath the vehicle. As Tiffany resumed her chatter, Jake clattered a sippy cup against the headlight before we slowly shuffled toward the store entrance.



Michelle Hutzkal