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Recently, there was an afternoon where little gal and I had to get out of the house or we were going to drive each other bananas.  For the most part, we were both exhausted and cranky.  I hadn’t slept the night before at all, I have been keyed up about a variety of very serious and personal matters - I wasn’t operating at the highest level of functioning. 

We went to the mall, and she played for a while before getting into the, “I want to run free through the mall without my shoes on - aren’t I cute?” routine.  Of course, she is cute.  All the same, she can’t run free in the mall.  There was a brief but loud tantrum about that.  Then, she threw a fit regarding the food court.  She wanted to eat.  I finally caved, and I ordered a couple slices of pizza for there along with a pie to take home for Daddy’s dinner.  With her, a shopping bag, and my purse in my arms, I went to get a couple of bottled drinks out of the restaurant’s case.  Almost immediately after getting our drinks into my hands, Buttercup moved quickly in my arms, and I dropped the orange juice bottle in the middle of the food court where it exploded with an unbelievable range of spray.  I think that some of the patrons may have been hit with the mist. 

For a moment, I stood there contemplating the situation with a sense of humor.  Then, I looked up to see the entire food court staring at me.  Promptly, tears sprang into my eyes, like an idiot, and I carried little Buttercup over to grab a handful of entirely useless napkins to try and stem the flow of our orange juice catastrophe.  Buttercup, very aptly, patted me on the arm and said, “That’s otay, Mommy, accident happens.”  Oh, dear God - that did not help with the watery eyes situation.  Now, the nice lady came and told me to stop, she’d clean it up, and she called me honey which didn’t help my uncontrollable urge to weep.
 
Now, if it had been possible, I would have bailed and hustled out of there with my tail between my legs.  Since I had ordered two slices and a pizza to take home, I was stuck.  The man eventually gave my blushing, embarrassed, almost stammering self, the slices of pizza.  We sat down and ate while I calmed down.  I was mostly over it when I saw him holding up my pizza box.  It was huge.  I looked at Buttercup, I looked at my shopping bag and purse, and I looked at the pizza box again.  How in the hell was I going to carry it all across the mall without spilling the entire contents?

This took me to a completely new level.  Thank you, Jesus, I waitressed in high school.  Had it not been for that experience, I don’t think I would have made it out of the mall without the pizza being spread all over myself, the floor, and the baby.  I planted Buttercup, the purse, and the shopping bag on one arm/hip, and I held the burning hot hell of the bottom of the pizza box on the palm of my other hand.  There were times when I thought I was going to drop it just because of the heat factor, but I didn’t.  I had to reconfigure this entire arrangement to get us into the car, out of the car, and up the steps into the house, but I made it without bursting into tears until I was in the privacy of my bathroom :)  This is kind of how it goes sometimes - I just don’t have enough hands.  I truly don’t know how people with more than one child do it, but I’m reasonably sure I’ll find out one day.

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