I believe I am his mother.

Written Thursday, July 31, 2008

Yesterday, I somehow figured out how to get JJ dressed, strap him in his car seat, drive to the store, unbuckle the car seat to get him out, and finally, strap him into the baby seat on the shopping cart. But, while waiting for the cashier to ring up my stuff, JJ, being the 10 month old that he is, began to fuss about having been in that seat for more than 20 seconds. The cashier apparently figured that I am just not capable of raising this child. She exclaimed, "oh, mommy," and proceeded to walk around the cart, put her hands between JJ and the harness, raise him to a more suitable height and adjust his posture. She then completes her task with an exalting, "there". I watch this woman. I am too stunned to say anything. I want to ask her, "Excuse me, could you hold my things while I check my vagina for that scar that I'm pretty sure came from his entrance into the world?"
Is this normal? What gives her the right and audacity to: 1.) put her hands on my child and 2.) School me on how to keep him happy? Am I not the one who gained 70 lbs creating him? Am I not the one who couldn't sit straight for 8 weeks after his birth because episiotomies are pure hell? Am I not the one who sported very heavy, sore breasts for 8 months to see that he got the very best start to life? Am I not the one who stayed up with him until 4 am when he was colicky and screamed all night? Am I not the one who doesn't own a single piece of clothing without some sort of infant by-product stain on it? Am I not the one who has the scent of ruined diapers permanently stuck in her nostrils?
As I finish this rant, I am surrounded by a sea of toilet paper which JJ has discovered, strung across the room, stuffed into his diaper, and soaked with teething saliva. Where are those cashiers when you need them?