Why I Can't Return to Ralph's

After being a stay-at-home mother long enough to give birth several times (I think it was something in my juice, because no one ever describes descendants of Englishwomen as "fertile"), I figured nothing could embarrass me. For example, when I gave birth to Aidan and it turned ugly (because that kid was the size of a watermelon or maybe even a medicine ball), nine people who were completely unknown to me watched me twist in those stirrups with a backless gown and a potty mouth. One audience member was the obstetrician, two were nurses, one was an anesthesiologist, one was the head of surgery ("Just in case-- that's a pretty big head there"), two were relatives, and the others had bought tickets to the birth from scalpers in the hallway. I think they were drawn by the inventiveness of my curses. Anyway, by the time the birth was over, I could run naked down Main Street and I might not even notice. No more nudity-related anxieties. That's what I thought. Just like with everything else, I was wrong.

Foolishly, I even went on to have more children, because I really liked them until that day at Ralph's. (By the way, I also thought that I could not be embarrassed further at any grocery store after four year old Aidan stole the green pepper -- but that's another story, involving salad items and antioxydants and a dark, cave-like stroller). I also made the mistake of thinking I could go to the bathroom before any of the kids turned eighteen.

I was a good mother, I thought. So what if I was in the grocery store and had to pee like a racehorse because I was pregnant a third time? My two prior progeny were in the shopping cart (or "double stroller" in street lingo), and because only one could be buckled in, I wheeled the shopping cart to the stall door and wedged it open so I could reach my oldest son if he tried to stand in the cart.

It turns out he didn't want to stand up. He wanted to bite Duncan instead. Hard. Duncan, no shrinking violet either, bit him hard in return. Both boys screamed like opera singers. My pants around my ankles, I attempted to reach them to check out their sibling-inflicted damages. Meanwhile, a helpful teenage grocery clerk heard the screamin g from the ladies' room and assumed an assault was in progress (well, it sort of was!). He burst into the ladies' room with his mop in the defensive position. My pantsless, elephant sized body stopped him in his tracks. He looked at my screaming boys, and started laughing. He's lucky he left that cubicle alive. So are my sons, I think.

In retrospect, shopping at Walmart instead really isn't so bad. Unless I have a really bad hormone swing, I can't even grow a concealing beard, so I came to terms with my Ralph's tragedy after my little girl was born. She didn't get her teeth very quickly. Bless her.