"Actually, it's a baby platypus."

It's a rare occasion when I venture out with all three of the kids. Noah is only 6 weeks old so his feeding times are still coming fast and furious and if you read this post, you know that nursing in the car isn't exactly my favorite pastime. Combine that with an incident at Chick-Fil-A where a female manager looked so very worried about me with all those kids that she felt compelled to unwrap and lay out all three of the meals for us (nice, but a little overkill... While my face was flushing crimson, I had to stifle the urge to yell, "Hey lady, I can unsheath my own straw, okay?!)... Yeah, I'm a little hesitant to go anywhere beyond the driveway if I don't have my sidekick -a.k.a. Husband- with me.

But sometimes I do. Occasionally a task or need demands my attention (example: We're out of peanut butter! Everyone, calm down! It's going to be oooooookay...) and we load into the van to remedy the disastrous situation.

Getting into the store from the parking lot is stressful enough for me that I usually do a little prayer session at the steering wheel before I take the keys out of the ignition. The bigger boys are kind enough to complement my prayer time by screaming in the background to be released from their carseats. And.... out of the car I go. Bursting from my seat reminds me of how I bolted from the gas chamber at Air Force boot camp; It's all about having a sense of urgency, people.

I put the baby in the front carrier, buckle the 1 1/2 year old into a shopping cart, and assign the 3 1/2 year old to remain beside me with strict instructions to HOLD ONTO THE CART, GABRIEL, AND DO NOT LET GO. Then I attempt to power-walk through the parking lot, which is difficult to do because 1) my legs are much longer than Gabriel's, and 2) I am not distracted by puddles, flags, or random bubbles the way he is.

Once in the store, I have only a couple objectives:

• Find and secure the peanut butter as quickly as possible.
  
• Prevent Eli from tearing down food displays.
• Prevent self from purchasing unnecessary boxes of brownies from the bakery which self will eat on the way home.
  

Occasionally my mission is slowed down by fellow shoppers who desire to comment on my entourage. My initial irritation cools if these individuals compliment me on the childrens' outrageous cuteness, and I could kiss the ones who say they're well-mannered. I'm woefully short, however, on catchy responses when poor Noah, snuggled against me and shielded within a blanket, is indicated to and I am asked, "Now that's a baby girl, right?"

I have lamented that it is assumed I dissolved into a depressed heap upon hearing that I would be the mother of three sons. Having the "pink" comments continue to fly even after he has been born makes me somewhat defensive. I know they're meant in good spirits (well, unless I get a dirty look following my answer. Yes, it's happened) but I still wish at times that I could whip out some Wolverine claws and... and... slice and hack some son-love into these people ("slice" and "hack" are metaphors, of course; The Wolverine claws are just for a cool effect.)

Yep, the one in the carrier is a boy TOO. Don't worry about me. Someday I'll have a set of offspring to rival Troy's army and then they'll be bringing the peanut butter to me!