Every Monday I willingly submit to put myself through my own personal version of Hell….grocery shopping.
This particular trip proved worthy of such a description right from the get go. My husband, who happens to be trilingual, has always flaunted his “tongues,” while at home which has directly caused my six-year-old daughter to become infatuated with linguistics. At the entrance to the grocery store stood the most beautiful Latina with three beautiful little children in tow. INSTANTLY my daughter noticed that they were speaking a language other than Spanish…and to my utter horror she began speaking fake “Spanish,” at a decibel level that rivals that of Donald Trump speaking over Marco Rubio. Why me? This question, the most redundant question that I alone ask probably more than any other individual on planet earth. Why can’t my kids be the children that fold their arms in church and tell strangers how lovely they look? In my mind there were overflowing thoughts of how offended this woman was probably feeling. How she’ll probably go home and type a seven-paragraph rant on facebook about the mom that couldn’t control the mouth of her child in the grocery store. My stare met her glance and she undoubtedly recognized the embarrassment/worry/defeat in my eyes. She winked. She laughed. She’s my hero.
I’ve done the deployment thing. I’ve fallen victim to many a tragedy, mishap, and series of unfortunate events. As soon as my husband got home I expected all those things to float back to the dark place they ail from. I assumed that I could go back to asking that ever lacking question of: “why me?” on the “norm,” of rare but completely normal circumstances that accompany normal life. Normal? What is normal?