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Getting Knocked Up at Target

I miss writing here. I have a million excuses why I don’t, but fuck that noise in my head. I miss it and I should fix it.

I think musings about my everyday life are no longer interesting now that I’m mostly a stay-at-home-mom with only a few freelance clients and no amazing nerd stories to write about. My days now are filled with toddler tantrums and pug farts, but if I don’t write about it… well, I’ll likely not remember any of it. So, here goes nothing.

Last night I made a quick trip to Target to pick up a couple grocery items, and let Franny run around the toy isles in hopes of wearing her out. That wearing her out part didn’t work. It never does, but that doesn’t stop me from trying… because I need some quiet time at night. You know for daily reflection, or drinking my face off. Whatever you want to call it.

While we were in the checkout line, Franny kept trying to climb out of the shopping cart because when you’re a sassy three-year-old containment is bullshit. I tried negotiating with her which is futile, because it’s a well-known fact that toddlers are terrorists. Especially mine. Meanwhile, the cashier – an older woman – was trying to discuss parenting with me. What a time to try and have a conversation, but I tried to pay attention to her while also taking care of my tiny terrorist.

How to get knocked up at Target
“She’s adorable, how old is she?”

“She’s three and as you can see, quite a handful.”

“Where are your other kids?”

“She’s the only one, which is perfect for me.”

I smiled, hoping that would be the end of the conversion. Nope. She spent a good five minutes explaining that it was my duty to provide my daughter with a sibling. The phrase “depriving my child” was mentioned several times. It took every ounce of self control not to go off on her. In my head I kept thinking “LOVE AND LIGHT, SARAH. Respond only with love and light.”

My head was wrong. Love and light this, motherfucker.

What did she think I was going to do? Run home and get knocked up based on her recommendation? Ugh. My daughter is not deprived. I’m 42-years-old, not exactly the ideal age for baby-making. Chris and I both feel incredibly lucky to have Franny, and she’s perfect or us. No matter what a Target cashier thinks…

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