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Today’s reality: I will never suffer from lack of material thanks to my Bug’s daily exploits and activities.

I swore that I would not become one of those mothers who is a slave to her home due to the arrival of a living poop-machine, our own little Bazooka. I wouldn’t be scared to venture out among my fellow humans. I would not bow to the unpredictable demands of my child. Yes, hunger or an exploding poop could erupt at any moment which understandably deters moms from venturing into public situations, but I was going to rise above.

And rise above I have, however, not without an occasional drippy diaper in the middle of a restaurant in San Diego or the sudden necessity to breast feed pulled over by the side of an LA freeway DURING RUSH HOUR when cars move at negative 5 mph giving everyone ample time to stare at the lady feeding her screaming meanie by the side of the road.

Today was extra special. My mother and I took baby up to Pasadena to have tea at the Huntington Library and Botanical Gardens. It was in the triple digits and my car’s AC is broken. First mistake. We drove with windows down, wind blazing, dripping with sweat for the 40 minute drive. Then, at the tea room, my bug was so worked up from the sweaty journey that she squirmed and fussed trying to calm herself down.

Then hunger struck and I began searching for an appropriate place to feed her without having to flash an entire restaurant of proper tea going public. Only option: the women’s public restroom which did not provide any extra seating besides the John itself. And there was no lid for the toilet, so I saddled up, strapped baby on to boob and settled in for the 20 minute feed. However, this toilet was one of those magical toilets that flushes for you (ya know, just in case you are incapable of pressing the lever down yourself) so every 2-3 minutes the damn thing would flush which would undoubtedly startle the bug. She would starfish in my arms (as I’ve come to describe her startle reflex) and then her face would downturn in horror and she would scream cry. This went on for 20 minutes: boob, flush, starfish, scream cry, boob, flush, starfish, scream cry, etc.

And sometimes other folks would enter the bathroom and add an extra flush into the mix. It took everything in my power to not request, “Could you come back later? I’m busy feeding my child who just so happens to be disturbed by the sound of the toilet emptying itself of your bodily fluids.” Somehow we survived and the rest of the experience went rather smoothly, until the car ride home…

About ten minutes from the house, Addison decided she SOOOOOO did not want to be in her car seat anymore. She had HAD IT! So she began to whimper, which turned to a fuss, which turned to a squawk, which turned to a cry, which turned to a scream cry which inevitably turned into a pig’s squeal interspersed with the trembling rumble of a child so distraught one would think she was being slaughtered to death by the back seat of the car. That evil evil car seat.

While all this was happening, my mother developed a leg cramp, so she began to writhe and wriggle in an attempt at remedying the pain, but it only escalated as did her discomfort which inevitably caused her to weep right along with Addison. So there I am, ten minutes from my home, with my mother and child wailing in misery in the back seat of the car. Words cannot describe how inappropriately humorous I found the entire situation. So much so that I wept with laughter. The day concluded with three Weeks women rolling into our driveway, weeping.

I’m sure the neighbors just love us. You may be interested with this restoration of classic Mustang from Revology if you’re a classic car collector.

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