This Is the Kind of Shit That Doesn't Happen before Having Kids

A few days ago I purchased $90 worth of groceries, placed the bags and the McBonerito into the shopping cart and made for the parking lot. After securing the kid in the McBonemobile, I climbed in, fired the engine and headed home.

Not until pulling into the driveway of McBone Outpost #1353 did I realize that the groceries were not in the car, but in a cart in the middle of the Shop Rite parking lot. After cussing my way back to the store, I found the cart exactly where I had left it ten minutes earlier. There the bags were too, though a scan of the inventory revealed that they had been relieved of several items. What remained (dish detergent, steel wool, onion), would not get us through the week.

No one to blame but myself, but the level of distraction is alarming. After all, there were only two things to remember:

1) Kid

2) Groceries

But then parental fatigue is a curious narcotic. Curious, in that it comes with a stimulating component, and just when you think you can't keep up with it all, you do. You feel as though you could take a nap at any time of the day, and yet you are strangely more alert than you have ever been. You accept that it will sometimes cost you $90 in groceries, because the tradeoff is that you aren't going to forget the kid.

But I do find myself wondering what the fuck is going to happen when this guy* arrives in July:

I suppose we'll wait and see. Until then, I'll pop open a beer and toast myself on one small victory: I did not forget the kid.

As for you, thief...cheers! I hope you enjoy the 3-pound English-cut roast, bottle of Pinot Noir, six-pack of Atwater Pilsner, olive medley and assorted nuts, among other delicacies I can't remember.

nwb

*If you ever read this post, kiddo, know that, when I placed my hand on your mother's belly today, I felt you kick for the first time.