There we were. Marjorie and I, hiding in Haagen-Dazs at the Charleston City Market.

Well, “hiding” is a strong word. We’d gotten separated from the kids somewhere between vendor stalls, the way you do at the market. It’s Charleston City Market, not the wilderness. The kids were fine. Ten, twelve, somewhere in there, old enough to wander, young enough to still be our problem.

We just wanted some ice cream. So we ducked into Häagen-Dazs.

And that’s when we saw them. Out the window, walking up and down the market, looking for us.

We weren’t hiding, exactly. We just didn’t run out and invite them into the air conditioning to share the treat. There’s a difference. A small one. But a difference.

Here’s a flash for ya: parents are human. Ergo, they f— up now and then.

Lucky for me, I’ve got plenty of material.

Ants in the Pants

Denver, summertime. Marjorie and I are driving with our youngest, Jeffrey, snug in his car seat in the back. Snug and miserable.

First whining. Then sobbing. Then yelling.

I was not happy either. Nothing like trying to drive with a deafening howl coming from a not-yet-two-year-old three feet behind your head.

We figured he was just acting out. Kids do that. We pulled over anyway, mostly to make it stop.

Marjorie checked his diaper. I stood there, impatient, waiting for nothing to be wrong.

Something was wrong. There was a giant black ant in that diaper, biting the heck out of him.

He had an ant in his pants. Literally. And I’d spent the last ten minutes yelling at him for it.

No Parent of the Year here.

Spoiled Milk

You insist? Fine. One more.

Burger Chef, near Scott Air Force Base in Illinois. The kids and I were having lunch with the old man.

Jim wanted milk with his burger. The kids sure did love milk, so I got him milk. He took one sip and said it tasted funny.

“Drink your milk,” I said. Impatient.

He fussed again.

“Drink. Your. Milk.” Louder this time.

More whining. Fine. I grabbed the carton and took a good swig myself, ready to prove a point.

Yuk.

It was sour. I had just about forced my “innocent” child to drink spoiled milk over a case of him being right and me being wrong.

No Parent of the Year Award, round two.

Enuf About Me

Josh and Cierra just had number three. Somewhere out there, a fun family outing is already headed sideways as a kid is melting down, a parent running out of patience. It happens. It happened to me. Three times, at least, that I’ll admit to in writing.

Patience was never my best virtue. They’ll do better ‘n’ me. LOL

Here’s what I’d ask the rest of you… kids, grandkids, the whole crew: what’s your Häagen-Dazs story? The one where you knew, even as it was happening, that you weren’t winning any parenting awards, but you did it anyway? Send them my way. I could use the laugh, and I bet you could too.

Parents generally do the best they can.

Good luck.

Enuf.