What do 21-Year Olds Know?! NOTHING!

Eight years ago, I worked for a plasma collection facility as the medical supervisor. My job, among other responsibilities, was to interview and evaluate possible candidates for plasma donation. This involved performing physical examinations.

Have you ever donated plasma? I have. Between being a donor and a resuscitator of unconscious donors, my professional opinion is: DON'T DO IT!!! But I digress...

Allow me to preface my little story. Eight years ago I was a 21 year-old single college girl. I was brim-full of all sorts of ideas of what LIFE was...or at least what MY LIFE was going to be.

One day, eight years ago, two different woman entered my office at different times. Both were in their late twenties. Both were married with young children. Woman #1 (shall we call her "Agnes") walked into my office and slumped in the chair across from me. Agnes looked haggard. Sweats, greasy hair pulled back into a ponytail, no makeup, dark circles under her eyes. Being in my office was a welcome respite from Agnes's children.

Woman #2, "Veronica", came later in the day. Veronica was a vision in pink. Her colored hair was styled to perfection. Makeup done. Nails done. Smile on. Perky in every sense of the word. Veronica was so "put-together" that I remember interrupting the interview and complimenting her on how "put-together" she was. Then my stupid, immature, unwise 21-year old mouth opened further and gurgled forth something brazen and idiotic like: "That's how I am going to be when I am a mom!".

To the present day...More specifically, yesterday, June 17, 2010.

In spite of our stuffed, snotty noses and achy body parts, the kids (all three) and I braved the town of The-Middle-of-Nowhere to do a little Father's Day and grocery shopping while we had the car for the day. There had been no time for a shower or much other grooming at that. I made a minimal effort and brushed my teeth and pulled my greasy hair up in a pony tail. A pair of jeans and a T-shirt completed my "look". The kids were lucky to have their shoes on...even if they were on the wrong feet. The girls' hair was untouched by brush or comb. The boy's glasses were all sorts of mucked up. Whatever. Let's just get our errands done.

We went to JC Penney first. For the two seconds I absorbed myself in trying to find the correct size, I managed to lose 23-month old Elle. Code Adam was called and she was located all the way at the opposite end of the store. Code Adam?! {snort} It would be more appropriately named Code Loser-Mommy-Can't-Keep-Track-of-All-Her-Rug-Rats-or-Her-Birth-Control. At least that's what the clerk that brought my lost lamb back to me said with her eyes. Whatever.

I still had shopping to do, but after that little humiliating display, I gathered up my brood and left as quickly as possible. Since they had announced exactly what my child looked like and was wearing, the whole store knew I was THAT mom. Whatever.

We made our way to the post office and managed to keep everyone together this time...kind of. Elle managed to make it out the door of the post office without the rest of us, but I could see her the whole time I was running to catch-up. That's gotta count for something.

Knowing we still had a hefty grocery shopping trip ahead of us, and realizing we just weren't going to make it through gracefully, I stopped at Burger King. I proceeded to make negotiations with the kids. Their end of the deal: play, burning off enough energy to not be total hooligans in Walmart; eat, filling their bellies enough so that they are not asking me for every cookie, cracker, candy, and pop we will undoubtedly see; and behave perfectly, especially when we get to the store. My end of the deal: to not eat my own offspring. Oh! and to drink copious amounts of Dr. Pepper. Done and done.

On to Walmart...Two hours later, with one grocery cart overflowing; one grocery budget gone horribly awry; three whiny, bickering children; one husband home from work, locked out of the house, and in desperate need of a bathroom...I found myself in the Walmart parking lot...

almost in tears...
not-quite-yelling-but-speaking-forcefully...
sweaty...
overdrawn, in every sense of the word...
remembering that day eight years ago...
muttering something about how this wasn't how MY LIFE was supposed to be...
still clinging to that 21-year old belief that I was supposed to be a Veronica. NOT an Agnes...

Whatever.

I'd like to find Veronica and dump all my snot-nosed kids on her while Agnes and I go out for a Ladies Night...or just take a nap.