I hope I don’t need to preface this with some blanket statement along the lines of “I’m not a weirdo.” After all, I’m the parent of quickly aging kiddos, so this should make sense. I hope.
The other day, I’m doing the grocery store juggle – the one where you are picking up all the bags in one hand not because you can’t put them in the vehicle one at a time, but to ensure all the handles are working correctly for when you carry each and every one of them up to the apartment at the same time. Because 1 trip, yo.
Anyway, I notice a minor hullabaloo to my right in the cart corral. It’s a mom and a wee one, maybe 18 months or so. Anyhoo, the mom is trying to get her son out of the cart and he isn’t having any of it. So she does the tried and true distraction technique. She blew a raspberry on his tummy where the skin was showing between his Seahawks tee-shirt and where his jeans and diaper were slung below his little belly. Crisis forgotten as he cracked up in that giggle fit every parent knows means all is alright in a little person’s world. Continue reading