Dear Babies,
As I type I am at the Port Washington Library dressed like a yoga pirate.
What in the world, Mom, you may ask, is a yoga pirate?
Excellent question...
Yesterday, in the throes of two (2) back-arching 4:00 p.m. no-nap-induced meltdowns, I decided to take you guys shopping.
I threw you in the car and headed to a stretch of high-end shopping on Northern Boulevard called "the Miracle Mile," specifically a stretch of an outdoor mall called the Americana Manhasset, where the fancy shop, where people buy their newborn babies layette sets to spit up on full price at Ralph Lauren for everyday (as opposed to, say, a nice outfit here and there, or a sweater bought on sale with coupons at Macy's).
"But what are you going to do with them once you get there?" Nanny said in a voice of true concern when I called while driving and she heard you guys in the background, wild. She was questioning our presence in society, how are you going to go out with them like that? Especially there?
"I don't know, Mom! I'll throw them in the stroller and hope for the best!"
When I got to the Americana, it was quiet. I parked in front of tree that had wind chimes. Everything was shiny and chrome. Nice. Clean. Quiet. Fancy.
As I strapped you into your strollers, trying to clean the gooey chocolate smears off your faces from granola bars eaten hours ago with the bottom of my t-shirt, I realized, I had no plan. What, would we just stroll through Hirshleifers leisurely? Chanel for fun?
"I wasn't thinking," I said to myself, and we strolled off, sticking to the "lower end" stores. (Cue Martin Short as Franck from "Father of the Bride," I'll have the chipper chicken.)
...Sneakerology was a big mistake. You guys love shoes too much to be in their presence and not pick them up or at least touch them. You are like Woogie from "There's Something About Mary," without the restraining order and warts. (You: Thanks, Mom!)
I wasn't thinking! I said with a nervous laugh to the young spectacled kid with a mohawk holding the door open for me as I backed us out in reverse.
J.Crew was no better. The belts!
The Gap. What was it about the legs of the white no-faced mannequins that would prompt you to grab onto them from your stroller and held on for dear life, as if they were the limbs of a tree that would save your life as you reached up and pulled yourselves to safety from a gurgling ravine?
Crate & Barrel was an aborted mission. Not because, in the wake of the mannequin incident I feared for all the glass, but because I didn't feel like dealing with the elevator. "We'll come back during the Holiday season," I said doing a 22-point turn in the doorway. "With all the holiday music and party displays, it will make you want to drink martinis and wear sparkles!" (On the record as said verbatim to two-year-olds.)
Which brings me to Lululemon.
By that time--a whopping twenty-five minutes this all took!--you guys were officially done. I wheeled us over to the wall of pants and quickly grabbed the pair I like in my size. You started crying, Baby Girl. "Here, hold this!" I gave you the pants. "They're lined for fall! How awesome! Mommy will be like the Stay-Puff-Marshmallow Man!" You started crying, Baby Boy, perhaps over this visual. "Here, hold this!" I peeled off my sweater, suddenly in a sweat. "Wow, look what you got, Mommy's sweater, how cool!" But let's face it, these distractions were terrible. The young girl who worked there leaned over the stroller and cooed, "what's wrong?"
"They didn't sleep!" I snapped, as if this sentence has any weight to someone who does not have children. I know this because I was once such a person myself, and I would ask friends with kids how their day was and they would gripe, "oh, it was bad! I put so and so down to nap, and then, she didn't!" and there I'd be on the other end of the phone, like, uuuh, waiting for the rest of the story.
Just as I was fumbling with my wallet at the cash register, the "everything is fine!" smile on face so thin it was actually not a smile anymore, no, I spied it.
A jacket on the wall.
Red cotton on the outside, lined inside with red faux fur.
Slightly poofy shoulders.
Tapered sleeves.
Tails that dangled in the back like a tuxedo.
(Tails.)
It was the type of ugly thing you see and say, "who wears that?" Exactly the type of thing that makes me say, "I do."
I gasped.
I had to have it.
"What do you think?" I said stretching my arm Inspector Gadget-style to grab it and holding it up to myself. Through tears, you shook your head no, Baby Boy. "Oh, come on, it's on sale!"
"Final sale," the cashier corrected, as in, this thing is so ugly get it out of there, and never bring it back. Go, Go...
...Now I sit here in the library typing away on my laptop, dressed like the artist formerly known as Prince should he find himself doing yoga.
Often we throw around the excuse, "I wasn't thinking."
But no. Sometimes you are thinking. Sometimes you know. (I know what it's going to be like when I take you shopping, I know! X-amount of dollars later, I walk out with the entire store, half of it pink.)
Sometimes, just own your bad choices...
It's a little cool in here. Good thing this has a little collar I can pop to fight the chill.
Love,
Mom
