Mall Meltdown

Some moms just have it. That special touch, that magic that keeps their young quiet, calm, and collected. Their diaper bags are always full, with milk in its special ice pack, fer medically sealed snack puffs, a diaper changing pad. These are the same mothers whose hair is recently highlighted, jeans fit, and drive clean cars. I hope this is you one day.

Unfortunately, I am quite a contrast that person. Recently, I decided to venture to the mall so that I could exchange a pair of earrings I was given for Christmas to something more versatile--an entire outfit. This couldn't be just any outfit. It had to be appropriate for Easter, and every day, conservative, fun, old, young, work-appropriate, and casual. Oh, and under $90. The sales associate looked at me calmly, confusedly. "Ok." He responded cautiously, like I might maul his face at any moment.

Gabriel. The angel Gabriel. This tall, thin, African American fashionista had more style in his pinkie toenail than I have in my whole body. He fluttered around the store and had the perfect outfit in minutes.

Wait a minute, isn't there supposed to be a baby in this story? This story seems kind of calm, kind of manageable. My 21 month old son Maddox has thrown his body on the dressing room floor, arched his back refusing to get back into the umbrella stroller, un-clipped my wet, freshly shampooed hair, and continues to slip his tiny pointer finger up my dress, into my butt yelling, "Caca! Mama Caca!" while laughing hysterically.

I am begging him under my breath to please stop. To sit like a good boy and have "cracker"-- aka sprinkle topped, frosted strawberry Pop Tart which is making an absolute mess of the classy dressy room. I, scramble around, fetch the remnants, and shove them into my purse. The fashionista gently knocks, I crack the door, and smile politely--"No, not that one! Too short. I'm too old for that. Thank you though!"

The monster starts crawling under other women's dressing room. I grab the leprechaun by his ankles and drag him from under the door. "Sorry!" I sing politely.

God shoot me. Why do I do this to myself? My sister whispers under her breath, "Birth control." 

"Sorry Liz!"

Why does anyone hang out with me?

"He's not that bad," she lies.

I grab the hangers, rush to the counter. "I'd like to exchange these for this." Calm, childless store associate does her thing, Maddox leaps wildly around the store like a gazelle.

"He's not that bad," she lies. "Other moms let their kids just run around the store."

Wait, that's exactly what he's doing.

I tell her I'm going to try and look for shoes. Please hold my stuff until I return. She smiles. "My name is Jen," I tell her.

My sister and I travel like lion tamers to the nearest shoe store. I need a "nude sandal" the male fashionista had told me. 

I repeat this to the store associate. Maddox is laid out on the floor like a bear fur on a Colorado cabin floor.

My sister "handles this" and takes him to swim in the mall fountain.

I exit the mall feeling exhausted, nervous, and confused. I question myself, my ability to handle another human being, and my own life. I feel like I've never worn so many hats in my life. I am trying to be a responsible, fun mom; loving, sexy wife; professional teacher; compassionate friend; thoughtful daughter/granddaughter/sister; meticulous house manager. Is it possible to get this circus under control? It is my mission to figure out a way to make this work for me. I guess I must accept that mediocrity is the only possibility in my crazy over achiever mind. Maybe this will bring some sanity.