At the dealership

I had the unexpected pleasure of spending several hours at the Toyota dealership yesterday. After Emerson and I went to his toddler gym class in the morning the Prius would not start. Emerson's response, after instructing the car in a loud voice "Work!" was to go to sleep in his car seat. I made arrangements for AAA to come help us out, and a mere hour and a half later we were jump started and on our way to the closest Toyota dealership to get the car fixed.

By this point it had been a LONG time since breakfast for both of us and of course we couldn't stop the car to get food on the way over there so we did what we had to do: McDonald's drive through.

And there I was: the 9 month pregnant woman feeding herself and her toddler McDonald's for lunch at a car dealership at 2pm. Apparently Florida is having its effect on me whether I like it or not.

A woman standing near me see Emerson's enthusiasm over the french fries ("More! More!") and says "That's good stuff isn't it!"

"I don't normally eat this stuff," I quickly say more than a little defensively.

"I do," she says.

Skip ahead 45 minutes: Emerson has had half of my chocolate milkshake, half a hamburger bun (the "extra" bun in my first ever Big Mac) and the better part of a medium french fries. I have eaten the balance. There are greasy bits of french fry smeared all over the floor below our two chairs. The window behind Emerson's chair is practically opaque from the greasy toddler fingerprints all over the glass and there are shreds from an ESPN magazine strewn around his chair. The others waiting for their cars are all silently praying that the dealership has expedited the repairs on our car.

Emerson is having a big day. His emotions swing wildly from elated and giggly to furious, writhing on the floor. He is bouncing from one thing to the next - shouting loudly in gibberish at people we do not know, trying to pull down the shabby garland hanging from the service desk, pulling all the magazines out of the magazine rack, jumping up and down on an ottoman, asking me to help him search for pictures of dogs on the available computer terminal, and so on.

He is almost unrecognizable as my son. (Except for the dog pictures - that's a standard activity.)

After several hours of the most basic form of damage control parenting on my part and wild toddler antics on Emerson's part, the car is ready. Everyone is happy about this. Emerson tries to insist that he should drive us home but I veto that and decide that I will drive us instead.