Judge Not Lest Ye Be Judged....

Young and childless people have very high ideals. Ideals such as doing their hair before they head out to go shopping, and dressing as though they don't actually need to go shopping. Others think things like "Why is that child screaming? Can't his parents control him?"

To this I say, stop looking at me with your freshly made up eyes while you stand there in your stylish boots wondering why I am covered in mud, wearing a head band with roots for miles trying to put a bag of apples in the cart with one hand while gripping the wrist of the child that is screaming and trying to jump out of the cart with the other.

Someday, you may have a toddler and I doubt that your fancy purse is going to like doubling as a diaper/wipe/spare pants/bottle of milk holder any better than my formerly stylish purse does.

Today when I got up to take Bridget to the indoor playground at Servus Place in St. Albert, I realized that the 'Bridget is quickly outgrowing all of her clothes situation' had escalated to a full blown case of "I have nothing to put on the child that won't make someone trigger the panic button that calls in the people whose job it is to protect children from neglect."

I also realized we were out of any sort of fruit. I never understood how fridges go from no room to put in another thing to nothing in there except for that little bit of Pepsi right in the bottom that no one wants to drink and some asparagus that resembles something that was affected by Chernobyl.

It was startlingly clear all of a sudden- it was time to hit a Wal-Mart.

When we dropped Jamie off at work this morning, Bridget started crying hysterically. She never cries for him when we drop him off to work. But this morning, she was none too impressed with spending the day with Mommy. Just in case I was unsure of how she felt about the situation, the little darling spent the entire twenty minute drive in blowing snow shouting 'No Mommy. Bridget want Daddy. No Mommy. Bridget want Daddy." She did take a brief break from that long enough to shout 'No Foffee" at the lady at Tim Horton's, but resumed the minute we pulled back into to traffic.

I foolishly thought that my luck might have changed when I pulled onto the Wal-Mart parking lot and there were one of those parking spaces for parents available. I am almost sure they are meant for people with tiny babies, or for expectant mothers, but really, no one wanted to have that conversation with me today. With the way the last hour had gone, it was in their best interest to let me park there.

Bridget insisted on walking into the store, across the muddy parking lot. Which was fine, except halfway through the journey she changed her mind. She needed a ride from the Mommy that would have to do since Daddy was unavailable.

Mommy coincidently was wearing a freshly laundered lime green coat. Mommy suddenly had boot prints from tiny size seven winter boots on the front and back of her coat since her biggest fan wanted to sit on her hip.

Now I will say that if I had just gotten out of a car seat, I likely would not want any part of getting into the baby containing part of a shopping cart. I am sure it's not comfy and it would prevent from being able to pull shelves full of cans unto the floor, and also impede my ability to run away from Mommy.

However, I would not fight my mother to the point where she snapped her neck in that extremely painful way that only happens when you have something else you need to do and suddenly you can't move your head in any direction and there is no one available to help. Well, except for the Wal-Mart greeter who is standing, watching all of this happen, waiting to pass out smiley face stickers that mock you as you stroll through the aisles, instead of just holding the cart while you wrestle someone into it.

Now, my entire list of things I needed to buy today consisted of deodorant to ward of smell, hand soap to kill the germs, a few outfits for Bridget to get us through until the fun spring clothes arrives, some cheddar cheese for fajitas, and a red pepper and some fruit to ward off scurvy.

Alone, the whole process might have taken 10 minutes, self check out time included.

Today, with Miss Congeniality strapped into the cart it took me an hour and a half. Which means it actually took me more like 20 minutes per item, and trust me when I tell you, I didn't browse or price check. I was a Momma on a Mission. Oh wait, I forgot about the foot prints. I was a Muddy Momma on a Mission.

Perhaps the highlight of the trip came in the baby clothes aisle. While I was looking for shirts to coordinate with the pants she already owns (because this child appears only to grow from the waist up- like her mother) she was very, very quiet. She was sitting in the cart, not screaming 'Stuck! Stuck!' at the top of her lungs trying to escape the strap that keeps her firmly planted in the cart for the first time since our arrival.

I was actually inclined to take a deep breath, but I didn't want to push my luck.

Then I saw it, whizzing past my head.

A pink size 7 winter boot, full of that awful mud that originates on the floor of yellow school buses for the sole purpose of permanently staining anything that it comes into contact with, sailing through the air.

Of all of the racks and open floor space in Wal-Mart, my child's boot had to fly into the rack of purple outfits. There it was- a size 7 boot print right on the shoulder of the Minnie Mouse shirt with the coordinating purple and gold leopard print pants.

And of course at that very moment a blue smocked lady was standing right next to me. If I had been looking for her there would be no chance I would find her. Yet, at my finest moment, there she was, taking the gaudy purple outfit with the boot print off the rack and wordlessly placing it in my cart.

Finished shopping in that department faster than I anticipated I continued on to the fruits and vegetables. Where, while I was putting strawberries into the cart, baby Houdini managed to figure out the strap, unbuckle her pleasant self, stand up, and shout at the top of her lungs, "Ta Da!"

Of course, at that very moment, one of those mothers with the three freshly scrubbed children with their perfect hair and nails were thumping melons nearby. Noticing the safety concern, she thoughtfully shot me that look that says, "Woman, why didn't you strap that child of yours in."

The trip through the checkouts was shaping up to be pretty uneventful. Instead of calling attention to herself when she escaped this time, as I was putting the groceries on the belt, she decided to just scale the side of the cart to make a fast get away instead. Of course, who do I see coming towards me as I am booking it back towards produce to catch my one booted toddler, but Melon Momma and her cherub faced trio.

"Gee, you really have your hands full with that one," she quips with a smirk.

I'll skip over the part where my head explodes and I still manage to snag my kid and pin her into the cart, stuff the boots onto her feet while passing the cashier money and then storm across the parking lot. You don't need details. Some of you know how it went because it has happened to you . . . Others of you will know how it looked when you were judging others - that's right, I am talking to you Melon Momma.

I would love to tell you that after I got my little bundle of love into the car seat she had a lovely nap while I drove home in peace with a good cup of coffee. But I can't tell lies.

What I can tell you is that after 40 minutes of yelling 'I stuck, I stuck' all the way home, when we finally pulled into the driveway, I spent 20 minutes chasing her around the truck trying to capture her because I mistakenly unbuckled here before bringing in my three bags of groceries thinking she might hold my hand and walk nicely. And then, while taking the tags off the leopard print toddler sized stripper number we are now the proud owners of so that I could bring it straight to the laundry, Bridget helped to unpack the groceries. She was a big help. I especially appreciated her squirting half a bottle of almond and shea butter hand soap all over the strawberries.

So now I am not sure if we are going to be struck down by germs or scurvy first, but you can bet your next mortgage payment that I won't be headed back to the store with my tiny terror any time soon- that is, if they will even let me in the door.