I remember as a young lady seeing women that I really wondered about; like I questioned their sanity. They would be the women I glimpsed talking to themselves (this was before cell phones), or red in the face after a minor inconvenience. They would be the ones who stormed away from the check-out counter mumbling to themselves about something incomprehensible. Looney.
I would pause in my perfectly pressed attire, with nary a stray hair in sight, and I would chuckle light-heartedly to myself. Adults are so weird! I would marvel, and then I’d stop to grab a cupcake or something from the bakery because my adolescent metabolism allowed such things.
Indeed thoughts about my weight were not an issue, unless you counted ones like, Oh my gosh Brie. You’re going to be in a size five if you don’t slow down. I could just thump my teenage self on the earlobe!
Aside from the ignorance of postpartum weight gain, I also couldn’t understand why women seemed so rushed. Like, hello? Just leave earlier! Then I’d flip my hair, and laugh lightly before sauntering off casually to watch a movie or read a novel. In one sitting.
But yesterday it all became clear.
Yesterday I went to pay some bills. I loaded up children in puffy coats and squeezed them into car seats, all the while questioning if they were properly strapped in according to the latest safety guidelines. Especially after reading horrible blogs about children flying free from their securements.
After removing winter garb, tightening straps, and putting in a movie little minds could agree upon, I exited my driveway reminiscing about the joys of adult music on the radio. I thought I remembered what it was like.
Through the soundtrack of a Pixar film I hurriedly, yet safely traveled to my destinations to pay bills by the due date stated. Naturally the due date was that day since last minute was the new on-time.
As I pulled into a drive-thru, and thanked God for such a blessed invention I realized I had yet to prepare my check. I could have done it during the 38 second timeframe that my children were preoccupied beyond my immediate attention, but had selfishly chosen that segment in time to scarf down a string cheese. I recalled reading the nutritional facts while I chewed, which was kind of like reading a novel. Sort of.
While the children screamed jubilantly for much anticipated suckers I considered stopping prior to the bank window to fill in my check, but kept going when I saw a large truck advancing in my rear view.
Grrrrr. I felt my blood boil at the injustice of it all, and I drove straight through the drive-in window perhaps a bit too fast. I stopped suddenly at the exit of the bank’s parking lot, noting a secondary exit to my left, and I began quickly filling in numbers in blanks. I almost wept silently at the large amount that would swiftly leave my account.
Suddenly a horn blared at me from behind, and with still a signature and account number to complete I looked behind me at the large, red truck eager to conclude his business.
Suddenly an unexpected rage rose from within me, and it broke free with the worst language I could manage as a mother of two, young girls, “You big crapper!!” I yelled. “There’s another exit!!”
I threw my minivan into gear, and while peeling rubber I regretted both my angry exit and use of strong language. After all, I needed neither bald tires nor a toddler running around saying “crapper.”
Still uncertain where that word had come from, or from where such unnecessary rage had erupted I pulled to a stop on the side of the road to finish filling in the darn check. As I wrote numbers on a line I felt ridiculous. And crazy. And like a non-recipient for Mother of the Year.
I considered apologizing to my kids for my outburst, but noticed their attention seemed focused on the climax of the previously mentioned PG film. I sighed, gathered my check, along with my trampled pride, and circled back around to the entrance of the bank’s drive-thru.
As I calmly triggered my blinker in preparation of my turn, a woman pulled out in front of me, using my traffic pause to her full advantage.
In the driver’s seat of the turning car was a woman much like myself. Her appearance didn’t escape me, and I looked familiarly at her sloppy, thrown-into-a-ponytail do. Her eyes looked a tad bit wild, and I noticed she was talking to herself animatedly. I thought I lipread the word “crapper,” but I couldn’t say for sure.
I looked in the backseat, for I knew it would be there, and I wasn’t surprised when a baby in a car seat stared back at me.
Poor dear. I remembered when I was like that. Three minutes earlier. And in that moment our kinship was forged.
No longer did I roll my eyes at crazy women overreacting about nothing at all; for I knew that we were not strangers, but sisters in this quest to conquer the mundane, day-to-day business of life.
We rose to the challenge of puking preschoolers, and laughed in the face of tantrums and scraped knees. But when confronted with simple errands we were overcome by angry hormones, falling victim to potty-mouth outbursts, and abuse against innocent vehicles. Sigh.
I was no longer an outsider looking in. I realized that I was that crazy woman in the drive-thru, and she was me. And aside from feeling like I owed my Mother an apology, I was fine with it. After all, you do get suckers in the drive-thru.
ruthiespage says
Loved reading this. I do remember those days. Now I’m the little SLOW grey haired woman who slows down everybody at the checkout! Because I do have the correct change…somewhere!?
brieann.rn@gmail.com says
Thanks! I really do love it.
angela says
Hi Brie, All I can do is picture myself and laugh. My guys are a little older now and they know when mom is having a crazy day. It’s great to know that I’m not the only one that feels this way sometimes; and it does get better as the kids get older. Thanks for sharing!
brieann.rn@gmail.com says
Thank you! 🙂