Bite Me!

Today I think I finally discovered the reason (I hope) for Georgia’s sour mood. After taking a very brief nap this afternoon, she woke up to continue her rampage. First, she attempted to pinch off that little mole on the back of my leg while I was in the kitchen fixing her a snack. And she pinches with a vengeance! Yeow! One of these days, she’s actually going to succeed in getting that damn thing off!

When I picked her up, she whipped out a turquoise marker that she had apparently been hiding up her sleeve or in her diaper. She wielded that marker as if she were Norman Bates, and she really got me before I managed to pry it out of her little fingers. The turquoise didn’t go very well with my light purple blouse, so I’m certainly hoping those are washable markers.

But I digress. She began screaming her protests at me for confiscating her marker, and on one particularly loud screech, I saw it! Tooth number five! The drooling and runny nose have been big signs that this was coming, but I thought that thing was never going to pop through. I am quite confident that it wasn’t there this morning, so I have a feeling she woke up screaming from her one-hour nap when that tooth reared it’s ugly head and poked its way out.

I should have been happy with the fact that I can check off one more tooth on the torturous teething path. However, something possessed me to stick my finger in her mouth. I had to feel it, as well as see it. I’m not sure why – it’s just something we moms do. Georgia immediately responded by clamping down on my finger, and I quickly discovered that five teeth hurt much more than four. Yeooow!

When her father got home from work, I shared Georgia’s latest accomplishment with him before drafting him to take the kids and go with me to the grocery store for milk, fruit and yogurt. Yes, I could have gone by myself, but occasionally I feel the need to share my experiences with my darling husband. Today I felt he needed to experience the public screaming of his daughter when she is confined to a shopping cart.

When we got to the store, I quickly picked up our items, and decided to add beer to the list since we were running dangerously low on Boulevard Wheat. Eric took Eli to the bathroom while Georgia and I went to check out. As the cashier rang up my items, she looked at me as she scanned the beer. “What’s your date of birth?” she asked pointedly. Jeez! What is this? A quiz? I told her my birthdate and she scanned the beer through. At least this wasn’t as bad as the time I attempted to buy Dayquil!

I said, “Why is it that I feel guilty about buying beer even though I’m 34 years old?” She just looked at me like I was nuts (you may be noticing through my blogs that people often look at me like I’m crazy). She just said, “I don’t know. That’s kind of weird.” What? Did she just call me weird? Then she said, “Did you buy alcohol illegally when you were younger?” Well, of course I did! I just said, “Ummmm, probably.” She said, “Well, that’s probably it. Those guilty feelings are still lingering.”

Okay, I get enough of a guilt trip from plenty of family members. I certainly don’t need the Wal-Mart cashier laying one on me for illegally buying alcohol 15 years ago! I’ve got to learn to keep my thoughts to myself.

As I walked out of the store, the woman said, “Have a nice day.” I said, “You too.” But the response in my head was, “Bite me, wench!”