I was a grocery store cashier for several summers, and it was by far the worst job I ever had. (And I cleaned animal cages at a vet.)  People complained about the price of their groceries (because I have so much say in that), the quality of the produce (ditto), the weight of their bags (um, sorry, I cannot de-gallon-ize your milk) and how things are so much better at another grocery store (and you’re not shopping there because…..?). Knowing this, I try to be patient with cashiers and their thankless jobs. But if there is a show called “Punk’d: Grocery Style!” I’m pretty sure I was on it yesterday.

Now, I have been  trainee, and yes it takes a while to learn speed and bagging efficiency (and let me tell you I ROCK). But where I worked, we had signs warning the customers, and if they didn’t want to deal with a trainee they could choose a different lane. Which I soooo would have done with my overflowing cart of groceries. Had I known. (I am assuming he was a trainee. There can simply be no other explanation.)

I thought I was choosing wisely — a college-aged-looking fellow. When I was cashiering, those were the speediest. By the time I realized times have apparently changed, there was no going back. (Actually, with the speed the cashier next to him was whipping through customers, I totally could have — even after 5 or 6 customers.)  His scanning method was not terrible; sometimes both hands were being used. He was polite without a constant stream of questions. But the bagging, oh the horrors of the bagging!

I bring in 7 reusable bags, and I don’t think a cashier has ever needed more — in fact, I used to have 8, but the last one didn’t get used on a previous visit and I forgot it. Two of my bags are insulated. All of my groceries are arranged on the belt in a particular order — frozen with frozen, produce with produce, etc. Should be a bagger’s dream. But then items were placed in bags. Items were taken out of bags and placed in different ones. After 30 (30!) minutes in the check-out line, I came home with:

12 additional (plastic) grocery bags, including one that held a box of cookies and one that held a bag of pretzels.

A reusable bag with only apples in it.

A reusable bag filled to the brim, with a cake on the bottom.

An insulated bag filled with crackers and make-up.

13 individual yogurt containers (placed together on the belt) in three separate bags.

Cleaning products nestled against bananas.

I survived. My groceries survived — even the cake (mostly). But next time, I may not be able to fight my urge to push the cashier out of the way and do everything myself.

It has started.

I knew it was coming. I actually hoped it would happen. But I guess I wasn’t prepared for it to happen today, in this way.

Up until now, Cat and Tate, ages 9 and 7 respectively, have shown an appropriate amount of sibling rivalry. I say appropriate amount, though truthfully I have no idea what is normal in this regard as I have no siblings. I am an only child and on my dad’s side of the family an only grandchild and hence my experiences with sibling rivalry involve me competing with various canine “siblings” through the years. I usually came in second to Lynnhaven though I was less high maintenance than Bobby Lee.

Until today, Cat and Tate have jockeyed for the position of favorite child using the passive-aggressive tools that are apparently embedded in the X chromosome. For example, Tate will say at dinner, “Don’t I have such wonderful manners, Mommy? I sit up straight and wait until everyone is seated,” she says smiling broadly and cutting her eyes pointedly toward Cat whose face is smeared in barbecue sauce. Or Cat will come up to me and give me a hug and pat my shoulders and say, “I’m sorry that Tate doesn’t sleep well Mom. It must be so hard on you.”

Until now, though they love each other and get along well, when given the opportunity to throw the other one under the bus to earn brownie points with Mom or Dad, the opportunity was never, ever missed and frequently sought after.

There has, however, been a shift in the force.

Tonight, someone did something that violated a house rule. Without going into details, I didn’t know for certain who the culprit was but I had a strong suspicion based on history that it was Tate. I called the ladies in front of me and then asked who the offender was.

“Not me,” said Cat.

“Not me,” said Tate.

“Well ladies, there are only four people in the house today. I know it wasn’t me, and I know it wasn’t Daddy. Logic dictates it was one of you. Don’t compound the problem by lying to me,” I said.

“It wasn’t me,” Cat said.

“I don’t remember doing it,” Tate said, suddenly deeply interested in our carpet and shifting from foot to foot.

I looked at them both for a moment, waiting for Cat to go ahead and rat out Tate. After about 30 seconds, Cat stepped forward. Literally.

“Mommy?” she began.

“Yes, Cat?” I said.

“It was me,” she said.

I stared at her for a minute. I was 99% sure she was lying and covering for Tate, but I couldn’t be completely sure because I hadn’t seen this happen before. I was in uncharted waters. So, savvy cross-examiner that I am, I blurted, “Are you covering for your sister?”

Cat stared at the floor and then said, “No Mom.”

Tate looked at her sister with an astounded look and then resumed looking at the floor. Apparently our carpet suddenly was deeply fascinating.

“I see,” I said. “Okay, well since you committed the crime, you serve the punishment,” I said to Cat. I sentenced her to collecting all of the inside trash in lieu of 15 minutes of Disney Channel. Tate started to help her, but Cat shook her head at Tate and said loudly in my direction, “It is MY responsibility since I was the one who did it.” She then whispered to her sister to go watch tv and to “look innocent.”

And so it has started. They are now forming an alliance of resistance against the evil empire and I apparently, despite my Princess Lea fantasies as a kid, am Lord Vader. In that moment, as I watched Cat take the blame for this petty offense on her younger sister’s behalf, I flashed forward about 10 years and saw the myriad ways she might do it again. And I shuddered.

I am proud that they have bonded. I am touched by their affection for each. I am amused that they are unaware of how transparent they are.

And I am so, so screwed as they perfect their techniques.

This is an actual conversation that just took place in our home:

Me: “Ladies, we do NOT put money between our butt cheeks.”

Cat: “Relax Mom, it was in an Easter egg.”

Me: “That does not make me feel better. We do not put Easter eggs between our butt cheeks either.”

Cat: “But I was just helping Tate with her homework. She didn’t want to do it so I jazzed it up.”

I am afraid to ask what the original assignment was.

Kids are hard on your self-esteem. Every time I think, “Well, I sure don’t look the way I did before kids, but my kids love me and don’t care what I look like,” my kids find a way to tell me, “Wow, you’re fat and old.”

Example #1: Kaylee is always leaving notes around the house for Mike and me, usually along the lines of “I love you very very very very very very much!!!!!!! Happy early Easter/birthday/Christmas/yay!!!!!!!!!!” But her most recent note read, “Dear Mom & Dad, I love you very very very very very very much!!!!!! I hope you don’t die!!!!!!” Um, do you know something I don’t? Should I be extra careful crossing the street? Chew my pretzel more carefully? Or is 40 simply so old that you feel death is imminent? Still, it was better than her sister’s recent note….

Example #2: Colleen leaves very few notes. Which is nice, since HER most recent one read, “Dear Mom & Dad, if you go on The Biggest Loser I will miss you very much!!!!!!!! And I will write to you every day!!!!!!!” Gee, thanks. I thought I needed to lose a few (ok, 20) pounds, but I guess nationally televised professional intervension is another way to go.

Example #3: Colleen barged in on me one morning as I was getting ready (no, there is NO such thing as privacy in our house). She found me in jeans but completely topless.

“Mom, are you getting dressed?”

I looked her straight in the eye for a minute and replied, “Nope, all ready. And today I volunteer in your class.” Was she shocked into, “Mommy, you have to wear clothes to school!”? Or tickled into giggling, “Mommy, you can’t do that!”? No. She gave me a once-over from head to waist, then ran out of the room screaming, “EEEEEEEEWWWWWWWW!” So many things I wanted to call after her: “Before children, my boobs were high up where they belong! My tummy was less poochy and had way fewer stretch marks! In my prime, no one looked upon me topless and said ‘EW’!” But I said nothing. She wants 6 kids. Her punishment is coming.

Example #4: We recently spent a day at the Childrens’ Museum in Baltimore, followed by a huge dinner and a paddle boat ride. The kids were exhausted, but I begged Mike for a quick trip into Barnes & Noble before heading home. Tommy whined, “But I want to go hoooooome! Why do we have to go to a stupid book store?” Mike very wisely said, “Because Mommy is pretty and in need of books.”

Tommy glared at me and said, “Well, she’s not the first part.”

And all I can think of is, this is how my flesh and blood, whom I carried in my womb and fed from my bosom, feel about me. What the hell does the rest of society think when they look at me? Ugh. I need some cookies.

Our family vacation in sunny California continues and I had a realization today that left me a little sad.

When we look back on this time, we will likely remember very little of it. We will remember the trip to Sea World, the zoo and La Jolla but many of the little things that made us smile will be forgotten, likely before we even get back on the plane. I think back on other trips we have taken and remember the big events, but the details are already hazy.

It’s a shame really because the details are probably the most accurate reflection of the trip. Our pictures will show us petting a pilot whale or feeding a sea turtle but we likely won’t remember our conversations and true reactions at that time.

To combat this photoshopping of our memories, I am committing to writing a few of the mundane details of this trip – to capture us as we are and not merely the glossy summary version. The unedited version of us is less pretty, and less appropriate, which is probably why I want to preserve it in the first place.

And so, here are a few things that will never make into our photo albums or post cards, but which I find worth preserving nonetheless:

1. On our vacations, we spend an inordinate amount of time discussing farts. Maybe it is because we are all in such close proximity with little respite from each other, but we are all highly aware of who farted, when and the quality and quantity of gas passed. It is especially noteworthy and highly discussed when Mom farts. This is the height of hilarity and newsworthiness for those aged 7 and 9. As Cat stated today, “You don’t do it often Mom, but when you do, you really make it count!”

Since we have eaten an inordinate amount of Mexican food on this trip, we are all eating a much larger than usual amount of refried beans. If we had to boil the trip to date to one catchphrase it would likely be, “Mom, I think my beans are starting to kick in.”

2. No matter where we are, or what we are doing, the children would rather be in the hotel pool. We have spent two and a half days interacting with a wide variety of land and sea animals, eating fabulous foods, and seeing amazing sights. Yet, the children ask us 30 times a day, “When can we go back to the hotel and get in the pool?” I am firmly convinced we can save thousands of dollars and a ton of aggravation if we just take the kids to the local Hampton Inn for a week every year and let them swim in that pool until they are waterlogged. If we threw in a few farts, they would have their ideal vacation at a fraction of the cost.

3. On this particular trip, the girls start every morning by performing a concert together in the shower. They suds up and then belt out Katy Perry’s “California Girls” at top volume. They take turns on who does the Snoop Dogg role. This morning, they performed “Baby Got Back” as an encore. Chris is sure that we are both going to hell as a result of the fact that this is how our lovely young ladies start their day. I am sure we are already in hell because the ladies also perform “California Girls” in the car, waiting in line, at restaurants and anywhere else it occurs to them to do so.

4. The most uttered word of every day is “Mom.” EVERY sentence starts with “Mom.” For example, “Mom, can you open this for me?” or “Mom, where are my water shoes?” or “Mom, I am hungry” or “Mom, sissy said something mean to me.” It doesn’t matter that Dad is standing beside Mom or that Dad is closer to the child or that Dad may possess greater experitse about the issue at hand. All questions, comments, concerns, complaints and grievances start with “Mom.” Hence I hear a lot of “Mom, who farted?” and “Mom, when are we heading back to the hotel so we can go to the pool?”

5. For Cat, 9, who is a tremendous dog lover, this trip has really been nothing more than a series of dog-sightings, interrupted by interactions with more exotic animals at Mom’s insistence. It started at the San Diego airport. As we were walking to the rental car area, Cat spied a Rottweiler who was at the airport to greet its returning owner. Cat was thrilled beyond belief when the Rottie squatted and peed in the middle of the airport parking lot. That event has generated more discussion than the zoo or Sea World. Yesterday, at breakfast Cat said, “Mom, do you remember that Rottie that peed at the airport? That was great.” Today at La Jolla Cove, home to wild sea lions and gorgeous sea lions, Cat was more intrigued with the chihuahuas and pitbulls that she saw walking by. As I was sitting on a bench, soaking in the sun and the beauty of the sea lions on the rocks, Cat yelled over, “Mom, come look. Quick! COME LOOK RIGHT NOW.” I started to run over and then stopped and asked suspiciously, “What’s up, Cat?” “A HUSKIE, MOM!” she yelled with fervor. “I just saw A HUSKIE.” I think instead of saying she say the San Diego Zoo, La Jolla, Sea World and Disneyland, Cat will tell her friends that she saw a huskie, a rottie, four labs and three chihuahuas.

Clearly, if either Cat or Tate became president, or a pop star, or a master criminal, none of these details would make it into their biographies. None of this is really noteworthy. And yet, I find myself collecting these memory snippets, like shell fragments on the beach, and wanting to take them home. These are the colors that won’t show up in the official trip photographs and yet these are the colors that make the moments golden.

We are on a family vacation for the girls’ Spring Break. About a year ago, after seeing photos that Jill had posted on Facebook of yet another multi-state exploit with her brood, I decided to break out of Southeastern U.S. safety zone and try to get the ladies to all 50 states before they finish college. Toward that effort, we planned a week-long trip to sunny California.

Today was our first full day in San Diego and I am not exaggerating in the slightest when I say it has been one of the most wonderful days of my life. We woke early, still on East Coast time, and enjoyed an in-room breakfast of donuts and fresh fruit. After weeks of East Coast cold and rain, we emerged to sunshine and warm air. We then headed off to the world famous San Diego Zoo, home to over 4,000 animals of 800 different species. We had a private tour in a golf cart by a staff member who zipped us around the 100-acre park, regaling us with tales of hippo babies, koala gestation and panda mating practices. We heard pandas talk and saw one do a handstand to impress his girlfriend who is in seaon. We saw a koala engage in a highly unusual bit of aerobic exercise, viewed a two-week old giraffe and stood within four feet of a majestic elephant who winked at Tate.

Later in the day, we did the behind-the-scenes tour. During the tour, we had the opportunity to pet and feed a rhino. The experience was amazing, if a little slimy. By the way, nothing makes a girl feel svelte like standing next to a rhino. I am going to have all of my photos taken next to rhinos from now on.

But I digress. We also had the chance to feed flamingos directly from cups we held. We stroked a kangaroo. We stood within a foot of a cheetah. We howled along with a white wolf who stood a mere two feet away. We learned about how former shelter dogs help cheeetahs adjust to zoo life and the symbiotic relationship of the pairs. We met a snappily adorned donkey named Sophia. I had the fourth largest member of the rat family pelt me with partially-chewed banana and I was completely charmed by the experience. He looked kind of like a beaver and I felt special that he picked me to share his fruit with.

After seven hours of magical zoo fun, we returned to the hotel where Darling Hubby took the girls for a swim at the resort’s heated pool. The ladies enjoyed the pool’s waterfall and virgin daquiris and splashing in the sunshine. Hotel pools rate up their with Santa with my girls and this one, which was highly anticipated, did not disappoint.

After swim, we all headed to Pacific Beach to try a Thai restaurant we had read about online. The girls wielded their chopsticks like experts and enjoyed their first foray into Thai cuisine. The meal was delicious – pad see ew, basil beef, edamame, shrimp, cucumber salad – each bite yummier than the one before. No one spilled a drink. No one got up to pee 27 times during the meal. No one fought over who gets to sit next to Mommy. It was a harmonious, delicious, lovely meal with nary a crayon in sight.

After dinner, we walked down to the beach to watch the sunset and to let the girls dip their toes in the Pacific Ocean for the first time. We watched the surfers. The girls held hands and scampered in the waves. We walked on the chilly sand and watched the locals with their dogs.  Because the girls had expressed an interest in meeting “real California boys,” I approached a surfer straight out of central casting, twentyish, not an ounce of body fat evident under his wetsuit, tanned, blond, ice-blue eyes. In my best “I am not a cougar nor am I insane voice” I explained that my daughters wanted to meet a real California surfer and that he would make their day if he obliged. Casey obliged and I got a photo of the girls looking like the won the lottery standing next to the posterboy for southern California. “You can really pick ‘em, Mom” Cat giggled.

This was the kind of day I hope for when planning a family trip, but the kind that we never quite seem to pull off. But today, the bickering was de minimis. The sun was shining. We did a half dozen things that we had never done before and aren’t likely to do again. Today was quite simply, golden. As golden and lovely and wrinkle-free as Surfer Casey.

I told the girls that they needed to each write two postcards tonight. I wanted them to commit some of these fabulous memories to paper and to share them with those that they love. Selfishly, I also wanted to see what they would say about all of today’s magical, memorable experiences. I wanted to relive this amazing day through their eyes and words.

Be careful what you wish for, my friends. 

At the risk of spoiling the surprise, after all that we saw and experienced, Cat, 9,  wrote to my parents, “Dear Grandma and Pop-pop, Today I went to the zoo. And got a stuffed koala. Love, Cat.”

Mike is a better Facebooker than I am a blogger, so some of you have heard this story. But it makes me laugh every time I think about it.

We were watching American Idol one night while eating dinner, and a young dreamer named Clint was singing. For those who have not been sucked into the Idol vortex, whenever someone is singing, his/her name and age are printed at the bottom of the tv screen. In all capital block letters. Very close together. Which prompted Kaylee to say,

“His name is Cunt. Cunt is a funny name. I’ve never heard of it before.”

I looked at Mike and nearly choked on my chili. Trying our best not to burst out laughing, we explained that his name was Clint, and after a closer inspection of the television, Kaylee concurred. Of course I have heard the word before, even uttered it after one stole a pitcher of beer at Liquid Lunch in college. But to hear my 7-year-old say it so nonchalantly, at the dinner table, was a bit unexpected.

Luckily, “cunt” is not one of my go-to swears, so none of the kids had a clue it was actually a word. And hopefully, if they can hold onto their beer in college, they’ll never need to use it again.

I bought a t-shirt today. I need another t-shirt like I need another activity to drive my kids to, but I couldn’t resist this one.

It is a JUNIORS’ size 14 and reads, “I (heart) MY HUBBY.”

Six dollars well spent.