Like many of my hormone riddled homies, I get migraines from time to time. The auras, the nausea, the skull crushing headaches… the works. I’ve always been lucky, though, in that I’ve always gotten them at home or while I’m out with Nick.
Until Monday morning at 7:30am, when I got one as I was walking into the grocery store. I had about thirty seconds to get the three kids in the cart, run to the soda cooler and take my medicine before my last speck of clear vision was replaced with a big bright dot and I turned into Stevie Wonder minus the talent.
It takes about twenty five minutes for my medicine to kick in, and since Helen Keller would have a better chance of getting the kids home alive behind the wheel of a mini van I decided to just play it cool and proceed with my shopping the best I could.
“Excuse me, sir, can you please tell me which aisle your lemon zest is in?” I asked a giant Peeps display.
Things weren’t going well, so I called Nick at work to see if there was anything I could do to make the medicine work faster.
“This is Ron.”
Ron is not Nick.
Ron is our mortgage guy.
Did I mention I was almost completely blind? I had just sort of hit some buttons on my phone and hoped Jesus would take the wheel.
“Oh, hi… Ron. Ummm, er… I was just wondering if the mortgage rate has gone down at all.”
“Not since last night.”
“Right. Thanks bye.”
I was on my own. Relying on instinct and pure skill, I tried to remember what was on my grocery list and aimed the cart for the pasta sauce aisle.
“Ellie… I need you to think back to all those hours I made you watch Sesame Street so Mommy could play her Words With Friends. What letters are on this can of spaghetti sauce?”
Close enough. I tossed it in the direction of the cart and hoped it landed.
I continued to inch forward, praying I didn’t run into one of those gigantic wine towers at the end of the frosting aisle.
“We’re going to run into Mommy’s medicine!” Ellie shouted.
I veered right and missed the wine tower by inches.
Then, like clockwork, the girls began to fight. They’re crammed together in that little car attached to the front of the cart, and I would have better luck putting two cats in a shoebox and asking them not to fight after I poured a pitcher of water on them than putting a 3 and 2-year old in that little car.
I felt my way to the front of the cart, stuck my arm through the windshield and began swiping wildly at the air, hoping to connect with something. “Stop FIGHTING! Mommy is SICK!” I hissed.
“Actually, on second thought… keep screaming. That way I know you haven’t been kidnapped or run away.”
For nearly a half hour I slowly navigated my way through the aisles, walking fast when I heard something fall, faster when I heard something break. By the time I headed for the checkout, I had left a path of destruction like an F-5 in Oklahoma.
I could finally see again and it was time for me, my three kids and my twenty cans of frosting to head home.