Losing Your Shit in Public

It’s nice to feel like you have your shit together in the real world, especially when you are out and about with tiny humans.

But I’ve found that you aren’t really living life until the wheels start coming off and you lose your shit in public.

Our neighborhood recently had an outdoor movie night, filled with fire pits and food trucks and a giant outdoor screen playing Horton Hears a Who.

As you could imagine, this whole scene was absolutely glorious for our three-year-old. But for our one-year-old, Ciro? Let’s just say that Ciro doesn’t give a shit what Horton hears, come 7PM he is tired and cranky and wants his own bed.

I had foolishly brought a travel mug with some wine in it for myself, thinking that if Ciro was calm or – gasp! – actually fell asleep, I’d get to relax and have myself a little drinky by the fire pit. But no dice. Wide awake, fussy baby doth make for a major buzz kill, and before we knew it it was time to go.

We knew it would be a challenge to drag Penelope out of there but we were smart about it, and we did so gently, easing her into the idea from earlier that day. We thought that if we approached it like this, then once we were ready to leave she wouldn’t pull her new favorite protest of high-pitched screaming. So I carefully crept up to her seat as she quietly and ever-so-contently watched the movie with the other children, and whispered that it was time to leave.

But we all know that toddlers are unpredictable little creatures with one job to do, and that is to shatter our self-esteem. After a giant epic meltdown in front of the neighborhood, and with a healthy dose of kicking and screaming, we left.

I took Ciro with me to get the car and was pulling up to pick up Greg, his brother, and Penelope. There was really nowhere for me to stop and since no one was around, I threw on my hazards figuring we’d load up quickly. No big deal. The movie was still going on, so it was somewhat quiet.

I popped the trunk so Greg could load the stroller into the backseat. I knew he’d start grumbling once he saw the forty-two bags of kids clothes I hadn’t yet dropped off to donations, but the real fun began when he folded up the stroller without realizing my travel mug filled with wine was in the lower compartment. Which of course exploded gloriously into a Niagra Falls of cabernet, spilling all over the trunk of our car, and onto Greg’s jeans.

I won’t go into details, but it’s important to note here that my husband is not a quiet man and that he enjoys liberal use of four-letter-words. By this time, naturally, several other cars decided to leave as well, and we were blocking their path while putting on a wonderful show for our neighbors. The soundtrack of Horton Hears a Who was Husband Blows a Gasket.

We packed up the kids, the stroller, and got ourselves situated. On the plus side, we got more of an outdoor movie than we bargained for, with some drama, and some comedy (for me, at least).

But I think the real tragedy here is the unfinished wine.

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