He did not want to leave the library.
And my goodness, a three year old is heavy. So are a half dozen turnips, two dozen eggs, two dozen carrots, kale, extra clothes, and two water bottles. Going to the farmers market after Beren's morning at school ended seemed like a good idea. Other parents who have gone before think doing just one thing per day with young children is a good idea. I tend to agree with them.
And yet, I did not want to sit around the house with a particularly fiery three year old, who I had to stuff into the car seat against his will at the very start of the day. Let's count, then, how many times did I stuff a fiery three year old into a car yesterday? One. On the way to school. Two. On the way to the farmers market. Three. On the way home. Three may not seem like many times to get into a car to you, but to me, it's at least two too many.
I have wondered if I would approach someone who seemed suspicious who was with a child. I assure myself that I would, that I would most certainly say, Excuse me, is this your child? Or perhaps something more subtle, but that conferred the meaning, What the f*ck is going on here? Or, I'd find someone to help me intervene.
I wondered if someone might say some such to me. It was Princeton, perhaps people were too polite or too busy to inquire of me, the stony faced woman with a coatless, shoeless weeping child. Or perhaps, they read the scene right. Pissed off mom. Pissed off kid. He's trailing after her. She's not moving very fast, cabbage in a plastic sack, flower print babushka covering her hair, faded Carhartt jacket. Quite a pair.
Yup, that was me. I was that mom.