Just another day

I went to Target this morning. I decided to try and experiment and see if Bennett was old enough to ride up front in the cart. You know that little section up front where you normally put your purse? Well, apparently, that is meant for children and produce.

So, I unpack her little shopping cart cover, because I am an official germaphobe. I strap her in and head inside the store. Guess what I found out? She's not old enough. Well, maybe some kids are at 7 months, but my girl was sliding all over the place. At one point her head was in between the leg holes, one arm was stuck in the bar, and one leg was near the handle. Don't ask. Oh, and don't ever ever shoot mothers a disapproving look when you see them doing this. We're trying.

I quickly became very moody as I stopped to adjust her every 5 minutes to avoid those disapproving looks. Then my mood turned even darker because I was buying $50 worth of baby food. Hadn't I promised to make her baby food myself? I only work part time and I had planned this for so long to save my family money and to provide healthy meals for my daughter. However, she has been eating solids for 2 months and the most I have done is mash up an apple. Dangit. So I got more and more annoyed as I put Stage 2 chicken and dumplings in the cart and then stopped 3 more times to sit her upright.

As I am walking out to my car I see my friend Jen coming in. My friend Jen who NEVER updates her blog. Oh, and our children are betrothed. So I am trying to avoid her. I don't want Bennett's future mother-in-law to see her slumped over with her hands caught between the slats. She might change her mind about her son's future. But then Jen almost wrecks her car because she is trying to park, wave to me, and eat Chick-Fil-A all at once. I feel a little bit better.

Jen sees my dilemma. Not only does she not condemn me, she tells me just to lay the kid flat in the front compartment. "Who cares?" she says. "They're happy, you're happy, enough said."

I love Jen. I hate shopping carts. And I hate (because I am secretly jealous) of women who puree their own food.