The Wal-Mart Run
It's a bi-monthly must. The Wal-Mart run. And it kills me every time. First, there's the slight twinge of embarrassment that I must face while walking through the store: three quarters of my cart looks like I'm shopping for my overindulgent seven-year-old. Second: there's the sight of that obnoxiously long white piece of waxyish paper that always seems to have a number printed on it much larger than I'd ever anticipate. I'm never the one to pay, in fear that I might have a heart-attack in the process. And every time the total flashes on the screen, I look away in haste. Feeding his mammoth appetite is a daily task that I'm more than proud to bear, but it's a serious budget concern of ours if Adam doesn't put it to good use. So far, he's put it to tremendous use, receiving considerable amounts of affirmation from many different sources. Those 20 pounds have certainly cost us a pretty penny, but he's better off for it. All I know is, if we end up having a house full of boys with a similar appetite to Adam's, he'll either have to spend twenty years in the Big Leagues, or both of us will have to take on four jobs! But until we know where the cards fall, our grocery checkout will continue to resemble something much like this: with a bright array of calorie-packing, child-"friendly," gut-busting nonsensical type foods, that if consumed by any typically metabolized person, would find themselves jiggling for dayyyyyyys.
(It's for this reason, and this reason only, that I resent my husband)
And that he doesn't like to dance.
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