A 3 Xanax Day

It's a 3 Xanax kind of day and you know how many I've taken?
0.

It's not like I pop pills on a regular basis, but if I did, today would be at least a .75 milligram day.

It started uneventfully, but I learned quickly that I was dealing with a toddler still hung over from Halloween and the high of playing conductor on a friend's new train table well past his bedtime last night.

Then there were the teeth. Teething never seems to end and today, a new front tooth made an appearance.

All of these things together created the perfect storm.

My son eluded me as I tried to slip his feet into his sneakers. Everything is a game and now the stakes are higher because he is Usain Bolt fast. I finally got him dressed and carried him squirming out to the car.

He eluded me once again as I tried to strap him into his car seat. He arched his back gracefully and slid halfway to the floor of the car before I grabbed him and tried to go in for landing #2. No chance. Landing #3? I circled back again. Nothing.

"Okay, let's go back in and take a nap," I told him. Luckily, I only wanted to run some errands and there was nowhere we had to be.

I shot some Motrin into his mouth with some resistance and considered a shot of whiskey for myself. He screamed and cried and fell asleep 2.5 minutes later. It was great parenting, if I may say so myself.

An hour later, he woke up cranky, but happy to see me. We read a few books and he did a puzzle.

"Let's put your shoes on, okay?"

"CHASE!" he replied, grinning.

"You want mommy to chase you?"

He was already down the hall. I played along. Got his shoes on. Got him in the car on attempt #1. Handed him a football to hold. Forgot the monkey. I forgot THE monkey. MR. MONKEY, to those of you not on a first name basis.

Now, this I knew was a huge risk, leaving home without Mr. Monkey. But, we were already in the car, engine running, and we went.

First, a quick trip to the pharmacy. He was an angel. We played catch in the toy aisle and I let him pick out a matchbox car. We then ventured on to the supermarket and for the first 5 minutes, all was right in the world, or at least the Gladwyne Superfresh.

Then it happened.

He started yelling his favorite new word: "Nack! S - nack! Nack! S-nack!"

Now, I never thought I'd be one of those mothers shoving snacks down her child's throat in the middle of aisle 9, but now I know better. You do what you have to do. I was 1/4 through my shopping list (which I left conveniently at home and was trying to recall by memory). A snack seemed reasonable. I grabbed the nearest thing to me: a chocolate graham cracker box.

I opened it as quickly as a person defusing a bomb. Technically speaking, that's what I was doing. He smiled when he got the first taste of that cracker.

I raced down the aisles throwing in groceries like I had won a shopping spree and time was running out. Then he said another word: "Wa-ter."

I was in trouble.

Not only did I forget Mr. Monkey at home, but I had a purse without a sippy cup full of water. Now this is poor parenting, to say the least. The only reason I didn't have a cup full of water for my little man was because a second before we left the house, he grabbed it out of my purse and ran around, yelling, "Chase!"

"We don't have any water, but we'll get some as soon as we get home, okay?"

It was not okay. He freaked in a way that he rarely has. He threw the chocolate graham cracker at me with such force that it ricocheted off the shopping cart handle and landed in pieces on the floor. Mortified, I scooped up the pieces and threw them into my sweatshirt pocket.

Blame it on the Halloween hangover, blame it on the teeth. I don't know. I picked him up out of the cart and tried to give him some freedom to walk.

Literally 24 hours ago, he was gallivanting around Buddakan like Stephen Starr. Now, he was throwing himself face first onto the floor of Superfresh in the frozens section. I kept walking because I've read that you're supposed to ignore such dramatic conduct from a toddler. It did not stop. He started banging his mouth onto the floor.

I picked him up, tossing more items into my cart in a last-ditch effort.

"All done," I told him as he cried.

We got into a fast-moving checkout line and I tossed my items towards the clerk.

"Here, you want to get down?"

I figured he'd stand right next to me and continue admiring the Sponge Bob balloon he was checking out. Not so. He got that huge grin on his face and started booking. Straight towards the exit. I ran at full speed and swooped him up as he was exiting towards the parking lot.

"Now I have to hold you," I explained as he squirmed back down to the floor.

I was furious at myself for wearing Uggs. I felt myself melting into them, and I wondered if I might melt away completely. I hoped so. My core body temp spiked at 110 when I chased him out of the store for the 2nd time. I ran back in with him under my arm like a football. The checkout clerks cheered as if I had scored a touchdown.

I paid. We left. We got home. He ate a snack. He drank water. I emptied out chocolate crumbs from my sweatshirt pocket. I put him in his crib. With Mr. Monkey. I carried in the groceries.

And I write this now as an alternative to popping Xanax and/or slugging some vodka and, most importantly, to all of the moms and dads who know exactly what I'm talking about, to celebrate us.

If this isn't work, I don't know what is.