Hell In A Handbasket

This morning, I was one of the those moms. I fell into one of three camps for onlookers: a) the pity camp -- "oh, that poor woman. I would be so embarrassed if my baby was screaming and the other little one was stealing pens off of civil service workers desks or b) the great form of birth control camp -- "I wish my girlfriend/boyfriend/husband/wife were here to see this madness and that would show him/her why bearing an 8 year old child is much better than having one who comes out under two feet tall c) the I'm wearing grumpy pants camp -- "grump grump grump those kids are loud and annoying. Grump grump grump." The fact was, though, that I was a traveling road show of kleptomania and vocal opposition.

I had to go get a social insurance number, which is shockingly easy here and doesn't require navigating through the labyrinth of mean and hateful government employees and hard to read signage like it can be in some places. When we left the house, Jack was asleep and we were heading to Molly's tumbling class after our little stop so I figured I was golden with nappy pants and excited girl. If hell had broken loose as soon as we walked through the door, I would have just left and come back later. Instead, my two peanuts decided to wait until we sat down with the nice lady (who apparently wanted her desk rearranged) to lose their minds. Jack woke up, decided he was hungry THAT MINUTE and Molly decided that this lady's calendar was awesome and that her pen collection was hers for the taking (all the while squeezing herself into the smallest space possible between the desk and the wall). It was an awesome 10 minutes and I think the nice office worker who offered me the conference room to feed Jack, the elderly gentlemen who basically walked us to our car, and the Moses-like parting of the Red Sea of people all indicated that they were all pretty happy to see us go.

I pretty much had to just laugh (and retrieve the pens from a small clamped fist).