946. V Is for (Punchline)

Having two little boys means that they must accompany you on errands from time to time or you will remain on permanent house arrest for several years.  When I had my first baby, I tentatively dragged him to the grocery store or Target every few weeks; when I had my second son, I felt comfortable enough to take both kids to the vet or the bank or dry cleaner daily if need be.  It was all a matter of choosing a time of day when everyone was rested and well-fed. 

So I thought nothing of taking my adorable son Tall (age 3 and a half at the time) and his one-year-old baby brother to Trader Joe’s to pick up a few things. 

We had made our serpentine way around the aisles, picking up such essentials as bread, milk, juice, and frozen chicken nuggets.  I casually threw some chocolate cookies into the cart when the children were momentarily distracted by the guy giving out fajita samples. 

And then it happened. 

We turned a corner, heading to the check-out area, and Tall tugged excitedly on my sleeve, indicating something momentous. 

“Mommy, look!” he proclaimed, pointing.  “Over there, look!” 

I was expecting to see Big Bird or Godzilla or at the very least, a cantaloupe display that had tipped over and blocked the ice-cream aisle.  Instead, he was pointing to a section of the store that I was already intimately familiar with. 

“Vino, Mommy!  Vino!  Your favorite!”  Now he was yelling, in his sweet little preschooler “outside” voice, a voice that was suddenly attracting a lot of unwanted attention from Trader Joe employees and other customers.  Anyone within a one-mile radius was craning their neck to look over at the mommy who clearly was a lush.    

I kept walking, feeling my face turn 100 shades of Valentine red, trying to ignore my son and silently pretending that he had just followed me in here and I had never met him before.  Tall was oblivious to my reaction, so he continued with his “helpfulness.”  He was quite exasperated with me at this point. 

“Mommy!  Mommy!  Don’t forget your vino!”  

At this point I realized that the only way to get him to stop screaming out was to put a bottle or five of vino into the cart.  He smiled, proud of himself for assisting his mommy in remembering something so crucial to her everyday existence.   

So, yes, the letter V is for … vino. 

MOV
("Mistress Of Vino")