Last night I decided it might be fun to go out to dinner at Wegman’s, followed by Sports Authority and then Home Depot, which is not something out of the ordinary for people with no children, but generally not for people with children, let alone had FOUR OF THEM.

Maybe it’s the cheese steaks and WAWA coffee taking over my brain because there’s just no good that can come out of that whatsoever.

But at dinner time? On a Friday?

The last attempt at Wegman’s alone with four kids a few days ago ended with me doing the “you stand here and you stand here and you stand over here and don’t move until I say so” which seems like the best last resort at the time but doesn’t actually work because you’re distracted by the bagger putting your eggs in with your orange juice and suddenly they are playing tag again in the checkout line and you’re apologizing to the 17-year old cashier who looks visibly afraid.

So why not try it again?

Because I enjoy torture, or really, not cooking and instead paying $389,123 for prepared food from a hot bar so my kids can sit in tiny benches and stare at a television screen while I shove the first meal of the day down my gullet.

And aside from the fighting over the high chairs, we actually made it through dinner in a totally not-appropriate Emily Post is rolling in her grave this is the sort of thing that people will judge us for situation.

SpongeBob is my babysitter

(Totally turning that into a bumper sticker)

But the problem with a semi-successful dinner outing is that you get all brave and ballsy and HELL YEAH I’M GOOD AT THIS PARENTING SHIT, MOTHER EFFERS and you think that you can stop at other places and do all the errands because well…

you’re dumb.

TOTAL ROOKIE MOVE.

Leave while you’re ahead, woman. Enjoy the sweet taste of victory (which is gulped down falafel and tofu curry if you’re wondering) and leave.

And really, it wasn’t too bad with the kids waving lacrosse sticks at each other, then trying on 20 pairs of roller skates, until Bridget decided she didn’t want to wear shoes in the store and threw them at me.

So I tried to put them back on and that was well, loud, and then she took them off again, at which point a seemingly nice lady decided to “help” me by letting me know that my “other one” was a little far away and “well you might want to…” Which what? What do I might want to do exactly? TELL ME. Because right now I’m trying to put shoes on a screaming 2-year old and unless my child is on fire, I’m pretty sure she’s fine.

And really, given how her sister is screaming like someone cut off her feet, I doubt anyone will want to take any person related to her.

Turns out, my shoe-wearing offspring (who are very good about staying together, by the way) were all standing with their face in the vagina of a mannequin laughing hysterically because LOOK HOW TALL I AM MOMMY NOSE IS RIGHT IN HER…

Yeah okay then. I’m sorry what were you saying, ma’am?

So hey thanks for the tip, lady, no need to worry. Just here, spreading a little birth control (and sex education, apparently) to my fellow humans at Sports Authority on a Friday night.

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