When I was younger my mom used to send me to the store. A lot. I was the oldest girl. Probably the most responsible person on the face of the earth at the age of ten. You wouldn’t send someone irresponsible to the store. Right?
Usually it was for eggs. Or bread. Or diapers. I can’t tell you how many billions of diapers I carried home, on top of my head, for the young siblings. I kept their butts dry. They should be a bit more grateful about that.
There is one thing I dreaded having to go to the store to get.
You would have thought that after so many attempts at doing this, and failing, she would have given up asking.
She continued to put this pressure on me.
And no, it was not to try and buy her wine. Come on.
This is how it would go:
A quick responding Colleen would say “yes mom, what do you need me for?”
I need you to go to the store to get some things.
Immediately I would sweat.
Get a loaf of bread, shoot, we need milk, just get a quart, and….
Please don’t say it please don’t say it please don’t say it.
My eyes would tear up. I kid you not. Tears. Tears for my fears. Because I knew what she would say and why she was going to say it.
And for God’s sake do NOT bring home cabbage again. Lettuce. Lettuce. Not cabbage.
You have no idea how often this happened. No. Idea.
To this day I have an automatic sweat response standing in front of the heads of lettuce and cabbage.
I never asked my kids to pick up lettuce. Ever.