We're not in Kansas anymore Toto...

Sitting around the lunch table at school, I have oft been amused by the more seasoned teachers accounts of embarrassment at the hands of their small children. I have laughed heartily at my own mother's grocery story woes in which I, Girl, doe-eyed and innocent....asked the older woman in line behind us if she was a witch. These were tales of those who could not control their children, those who hadn't read every parenting book from cover to cover, those who had not Googled every situation and scenario an anklebiter could throw at you.

Fast forward to present day and you find Girl at a local grocery store after a long day of molding the minds of America. After securing Pink in the store's capable childcare center, Tink and I shoot off to get the five things on the list and get the heck outta Dodge. Here we are, mother and child, a Rockwellian scene...sharing a few laughs and a few stolen kisses. Life is good; I have mastered this mothering thing and am at the peak of my career. People stop and stare in awe at such a fine example of parenting expertise.

Enter one" little person" in a large green sweater. Tink catches his eye and locks him into a death stare. Beads of sweat form on my forehead as I know Tink has no verbal filter yet and, unlike her sister, never fails to say what she's thinking.

"Momma! Momma!", she says, pointing wildly at this little man.

Knowing we are headed for disaster I do the only thing I can think of...push the cart as fast as I can away from him. With blonde hair flying, Tink and I take refuge in the deli and I breathe a sigh of relief that he is out of earshot. I take my number and am waiting my turn when he rounds the corner. Tink's head whips around and it's a Deli Faceoff.

With a thick Italian accent, our little friend orders a pound of prosciutto and Tink can take no more.

Standing in the cart now, both arms waving she yells, "Momma wook at dat wittle gween guy! Wook at dat wittle guy!"

Never in her life has she seen such a sight, and she stands in that cart waving and blowing kisses like she is sitting atop a float in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade.

The man, clearly used to this behavior, gives her a wink and walks away while I start spouting off about all of us being created in God's image. Tink, not buying into my religious crap, waves at him one more time exuberantly.

I can hear a sigh from the crowd now as I enter the hallowed halls of "parenting shame", where my mother and colleagues are there to greet me with open arms.

Next stop: Wine and Spirits. This kind of day is why the Box O' Wine was invented. Thank you Jesus!