Prior to motherhood, I was the independent sort … carefree … plans were for sissies. I’ve never been an “I don’t know, let me check with my husband” kind of girl. We were never that couple that was attached at the hip. He’d go hunting for the weekend, and I’d relish in my alone time with ice cream and a great book. I’d take off for a girls’ weekend, and he’d do whatever it is he liked to do when he had the house to himself—probably a whole lot of scratching his ass and walking around naked if I had to guess. It worked for us. We enjoyed our life together, but also had fulfilling lives outside of that, too.

And then two became three.

The days of grabbing my purse and hitting the road were long gone. They were replaced with grabbing the purse, diaper bag, bottles, stroller, changing pad, and whatever other contraption created to make our lives “easier.” I said goodbye to petite cross body bags and hello to overstuffed diaper bags that weighed twice as much as the baby nestled in the stroller. When becoming a pack mule became my only option, I decided to stay put.

Until I felt like I would spontaneously combust from looking at the same four walls, that is.

So before cabin fever claimed another victim, I orchestrated the maiden voyage for the professor and his highly capable mother … I’m talking about me right there. There was one outing attempt to the local Kmart prior, cut drastically short due to technical difficulties. Those difficulties included but were not limited to, the ear-piercing wail of the professor, the ill-timed let down reflex of my traitorous boobies, and the irritated glares of mid-day shoppers as I raced away, cradling my chest and apologizing profusely to whoever I passed on the way out of Dodge.

Wiping that memory from my brain, I decided to take the professor on his first shopping trip. With our friends’ daughter, Eva, having her first birthday party the next day, I decided to drop by the BabyGap for the perfect outfit to show off my handsome boy. Now, did I have a closet full of baby clothes, tags still on, hanging in his closet? Well, that’s irrelevant, isn’t it?

Diaper bag? Check! Bottles? Check! Stroller? Check! Oh, and the baby. Don’t forget the baby. Off to the mall we go!

The professor slept for the entire drive. So far, so good—I’m rocking the hell out of this shopping trip. I rolled into a front row parking space at the local mall, feeling well and accomplished. Front row parking. Shaded by a tree. Sleeping baby in the car seat.

I’m queen of the world!

I popped the trunk and lugged out the monstrosity that is the stroller and wedged that bad boy open.

Except I couldn’t … the damn thing wouldn’t … why the hell wouldn’t the stupid stroller open?

After wrestling with it a lot longer than I care to admit, I was sweaty, frustrated, and feeling like an imbecile. An imbecile who couldn’t open a simple stroller. I wasn’t queen of the world.

I was the doofus of the parking lot.

I huffed out a breath, swiped away the strands of hair sticking to my sweat-covered forehead, and racked my brain for a solution. I pondered the chain of events that led me to this very moment.

And that’s when I saw it, like a shining beacon, calling out my name.

Babys-R-Us … right across the street from the shopping mall.

Those were the fools that sold me this infuriating contraption!

So what did I do? I tossed that piece of crap back into the trunk and streaked across the parking lot like my ass was on fire. Once I got to Babys-R-Us, I loaded the professor’s car seat into a shopping cart (I had that figured out from the unfortunate K-Mart trip) and stormed the store. Once I found the display with my exact stroller, I planted myself in front of it and flagged down the first salesperson I saw.

I won’t go into detail about the snarky attitude I threw about the “piece of crap,” impossible stroller they sold me. No, I won’t lament about how the salesperson brought the stroller to life with a touch of a button and a turn of her wrist. No sweat. No frustration. No four letter words.

Doofus. Of. The. Parking. Lot.

I swallowed my pride and my stupidity (the stupidity was the bigger pill in this case), thanked her for her help, and moseyed out the door with my head held high. Fake it ’til you make it and all that.

When I popped the professor’s car seat back into its base, I thanked my lucky stars he was still sleeping and missed his mom showing her behind to everyone within five aisles of the strollers. And let’s not forget the people in the parking lot who witnessed my one-manned wrestling match and subsequent stomping fit.

My parking space wasn’t as primo as the first time, but still near the door, so I stowed that puppy in the “win” column. I hauled the stroller out of the trunk and made it my bitch in two point two seconds. A touch of a button and a flick of the wrist. Easy peasy.

I clicked the still snoozing professor’s car seat into the stroller, grabbed my purse, and reached for the … where’s the … I could’ve sworn the diaper bag was …

You’ve got to be kidding me!

I distinctly remembered placing the diaper bag in the shopping cart at Babys-R-Us, but did I take it out?

Doofus. Of. The. Parking. Lot.

After wrangling the professor’s car seat out of the stroller (yet another nifty hidden release button to make me feel like an idiot), I break down the stroller and zoom back over to Babys-R-Us to find the employee behind the customer service desk dangling the damn diaper bag on one finger and doing a horrific job at hiding her smirk. My head wasn’t held nearly as high on the second go-round.

A less determined woman would have tossed her crap in the car and raced home in tears. A woman made of thinner skin would have locked the doors of her house and declared she and the kiddo weren’t leaving again until he turned twenty.

But I am not that woman. I am the doofus of the parking lot, and I will persevere!

The professor and I made it to Baby Gap that day. He looked like a rock star at that birthday party, and I count our shopping trip as a hard fought, not pretty in the least, check in the “win” column.

The professor slept through the entire debacle, never opening his eyes to see the hot mess express that was his mom. He remained blissfully ignorant of the iffy state of his mom’s sanity.

There’s always tomorrow.