“Don’t forget, we have the evaluation with early intervention this afternoon,” I yell to Hunter as I grab my purse and the grocery list off the fridge. If I leave now, I’ll have time to make it to Target and the grocery store before the meeting.

It’s still early, but my kiddo runs on the motto that sleep is a privilege and not a necessity. I’m still trying to figure out how to function best at four in the morning, but he’s got it down to a science.

But today is a stressful day no matter what time I could have woken up. Mostly because I have no idea what to expect from this evaluation. We’ve been through so many, and they never get easier. Usually, I’m just as exhausted and stressed out as Kellen by the time the appointment ends.

Around the time he turned two, we knew something was wrong. His speech was delayed and his milestones were too. We hooked up with a wonderful social worker who has given us our official membership card into the world of autism.

It was never a place I imagined myself ending up, but once our ship sailed in this direction, I realized we had no choice but to accept a new normal. Like our son, we have good days and bad days, and a few we’d like to forget.

But as I roam the aisles at the grocery store, and even manage to grab a cart without a shaky wheel, I feel like this day is heading in the right direction.

It’s so quiet in here, and all the produce looks brighter. The misting displays make the lettuce look sexy, and that eggplant sure does scream desire.

By the time I get to aisle four, I have a good chunk of what I came for and slow my roll to pick up some taco sauce. I plop it in the cart by the bread so I can use both hands to climb on the bottom shelf and reach the box I need all the way at the top.

I get one nail on the edge and slide the box forward. Once it’s in my possession, I toss it in the cart, forgetting about the jar still sitting in the front.

Now, we all know the little section where kids sit isn’t made for breakables. They’ll fall through the leg holes and hit the floor. But I forget all about my taco sauce until it does just that—shatters all over my feet.

I stand there for a second like it’ll all go away if I pray hard enough. I even open my purse and look around for some tissues. Of course I have a pack of Wet Ones, but no amount of wipes are going to clean up this crime scene.

On the heels of my feet, the only clean parts of my flip flops, I waddle through the mess and push my cart toward the front of the store.

Of course there’s only one cash register open at this hour, so I have no choice but to wait in line for my turn. Going over my speech a million different ways, I finally come up with something that sounds a little less pathetic.

But when it’s finally my turn, an announcement over the loudspeaker speaks the truth for me, alerting the entire grocery store of the mishap in aisle four.

“That was me,” I mutter. “Do you have any paper towels I can wipe off with?”

The woman glances over the conveyor belt and sees my red feet. “I think you’re bleeding.”

“It’s taco sauce,” I tell her as calmly as possible. “Ole!”

She hands me a wad of paper towels and I wipe my feet off. And then, I see she’s right. My toes are sliced open from the glass, and I’m bleeding all over the checkout.

Maybe it’s the adrenaline coursing through my veins, but I don’t feel any pain. The manager yells, “We have a bleeder!” and pulls me over to a chair.

He then takes a full report in front of all the other customers on how this happened. After my last statement, he tucks his clipboard under his arm and shakes his head. Then he pulls my cart closer and flips the plastic piece in the front compartment up and down. I get it. I do. But I’m about to be schooled on proper cart procedure anyway.

“Do you see this?” he asks.

“Yes,” I tell him.

And then, just as I suspected, he proceeds to lecture me in cart care 101. After all, that’s what keeps shoppers safe. Considering I just wrapped my left foot in brown, harsh, paper towel, kind of like the scratchy toilet paper in offices and hospitals, all I can do is listen to his speech. And when he finishes, I take what’s left of my pride to the car, and I drive to medical aid.

The reactions I get there aren’t much better. It’s slow, and two doctors and three nurses come into the room, just to hear what happened. I guess they don’t see taco sauce debacles very often.

Three stitched up toes later, I can successfully say I’ve survived #Momfail#4.

I may look like I just ran through hot coals, but I wasn’t late to that meeting with the social worker. But I did forget the diapers.