I have all sorts of cute pictures to show you for Mommy Diaries, but not today. Today, I’m getting real with you.
This past weekend I attended The Nutcracker Market with my sister-in-law. If you’re not familiar with The Nutcracker Market, I’ll fill you in. Vendors come from far and wide all over the US to rent booth space. In their booths, they sale what they are famous for. It can be anything from furniture, pajama’s, Christmas decor, kids clothes, food, etc. If you can imagine it, then it’s at The Nutcracker Market. The money raised from the vendor’s rental fees goes toward the Houston Ballet. It’s four days of drinking, eating, and shopping until you drop. People come from all over the area to attend The Nutcracker Market, and it has become a tradition every year in my husbands family that the ladies meet up and go.
Naturally, we attend on the very last day because that’s when all the vendors-or most- knock down their prices. They don’t want to pack it all up and send it back home and I don’t want to pay full price, so Sunday works for me. Not only does Sunday work for me, but it works for thousands of other people as well. That being said, the rules of the market are unless you are disabled there are no strollers, carts, suitcases, or wheels of any kind allowed inside the market. Whatever you bring or buy you carry. You bring kids who can’t walk, guess what! You carry them. That’s the rules! No ifs, ands, or buts about it.
My sister-in-law and I knew this well before going into the market, so we planned accordingly. I brought my four month old, Charlie, along. One person backpacked the baby, while the other backpacked the diaper bag. Naturally, we switched throughout the market to give the other a break from whatever was heaviest. Well, after about four hours of shopping, Charlie, poor boy, was dropping. He was tired, hungry, needed to be changed, and was ready to be out of his baby carrier. I understood. I was ready for him to be out of it, too. My back was killing me, my shoes were rubbing blisters, and I hadn’t even made it through half of the market yet.
As I’m standing in a long line to order a baked potato, I’m bouncing Charlie back and forth trying to console him. My plan was to feed mommy and baby at the same time. I’m shhing, I’m bouncing, I’m reasoning with my child trying to please him long enough to get my food and find a seat. While, next to me, a grandmotherly figure decides to peek her head in the baby carrier and tell me how pretty my baby was. Well, that sure was sweet.
Then, she proceeds to tell me that I don’t get to do things on my time, mommy! She actually put the “mommy” in there, and that I have to do things on his time.
Whoa, whoa, whoa! Hold the phone, lady. You should have stopped while you were ahead. All I could sit there and think was how bad my feet and back hurt. How shopping without a child every once in a while would be the greatest luxury in life and I got grandma telling me I don’t get to do things on my time anymore. All I wanted to say was, Lady, I have three kids. There is no more me time. Ninety percent of my time goes to my three children, and the other ten percent goes to sleeping or pooping, which my kids still find a way to steal ninety percent of that ten by banging on the bathroom door or just coming right on in to have a conversation with me. So don’t preach to me about doing things on their time. When the heck do I get my time? My time is now and I’m still spending it with one of my children. Older and wiser, my ass!
But, naturally, I didn’t say any of those things because that would have been rude. I just smiled, nodded my head, and said, “You’re right.”