Day two: Whose car is it?
Suburban driving patterns might be a sin of the “mom,” but this morning I learned she’s got company.
My husband, who insisted he mow the lawn (which, much to the dismay of our retired neighbors, hadn't been done for almost two weeks ago) because he thought I should be giving up all internal-combustion engines, wanted a Dr. Pepper and a candy bar.
I told Carolyn we were going to the store for treats and, of course, she happily agreed, until she saw we were taking the stroller.
“Get in the car. Get in the car,” she cried, pointing to my black Mazda. In fact, she cried all the way to the store.
Nothing (well, almost nothing) feels quite as trashy as walking to the gas station Sunday morning for $5 in junk food with a crying 2-year-old. The church-going folk drove past us, shaking their pious heads.