"that" mother

Yep. As of this evening, I have officially become "that" mother. You know the one I'm talking about ... the one whose baby, despite the frigid temperatures, is wearing no socks or jacket and is throwing a huge ass hissy fit in the dressing room. The mother whose hair is haphazardly tossed in a poop knot on her head, has spit up stains on her sweat shirt and gives her huge-ass-hissy-fit-throwin' child ANYTHING to silence the deafening roar (cell phone? yup. sun glasses? yup. $10 spatula that she later "neglects" to purchase? yup.)

The one who ilicits both looks of disgust and empathy while she carries her 20-pounder in the crook of her right arm, while navigating the shopping cart with her left, all the while praying that her arm doesn't give out, that she doesn't ram into yet another rack of clothes and that the teetering carseat that the 20-pounder REFUSES to sit in doesn't topple over, scattering its contents to every far corner of the store (half-full bottle w/o lid ... chewed-up sun glasses covered in teeth marks and baby spit ... unzipped, overflowing diaper bag ... monkey teether and an assortment of products that still have price tags).

Yup. I am "that" mother. It didn't really sink in until I pulled into the 20-items-or-less lane and out of sheer exhaustion, plopped my no-socks, no-jacket wearing baby onto the conveyor belt in an effort to a.) get some feeling back in my arm, b.) empty my cart, c.) put his socks and jacket BACK on for the third time since entering the store and d.) provide some mild amusement for the throng of my fellow shoppers.

Oh, and sidenote: Before leaving for the store, my son ate a hairball!!! (my hairball ... I'm shedding. There's hair everywhere.) Sigh.