Why You Shouldn't Leave the House Looking CRAZY

Yesterday, my husband needed a ride. He just needed to be dropped off at a place that wasn't far from the house, so I decided to go "as is," which looked like this...





I had just finished taking some braids out of my hair and hadn't taken a shower yet, so I still had on my PJs. No biggie. I knew I wasn't going to be getting out of the car, so it didn't matter. Zara and I dropped him off and headed back home.

All was well, until I noticed that the "refuel now" sign was lit on the dashboard. The radio had been playing such good music that I was completely consumed by my driver's dancing and hadn't even noticed when it came on. Was it 2 seconds ago or 15 minutes? Plus, I was driving my mother's car--which I'm not familiar with--so I didn't feel comfortable chancing it. I've run out of gas 4 or 5 times in my own car (back when I had one) and know how frustrating it is to be stranded.

At this point I was really close to the house, but pulled into the next gas station anyway. It wasn't until I got out of the car that I remembered what I looked like. Too late. I was already out and wasn't leaving without some gas. I ignored the crazy looking men that obviously felt they had to stare at the big-haired lady in the bright blue bathrobe.

It would have been an in and out deal if I could get the gas tank door open. My mother drives a Mercedez, so I figured there was some fancy trick to opening it. I got back in the car and looked around for a button with a picture of a gas tank on it.

Nothing.

I checked in the usual places that I had seen it in on other cars.

No success.

I checked in crazy places that I already knew I wouldn't find it in (like the glove compartment, sun visor, and floorboard).

Still no luck.

By this point, I had been there 10 minutes, it was getting hot and more and more crazy/killer/rapist/cannibal/hooligan/kipnapper types were rolling through. I called my mother to ask her where the button was and she couldn't tell me. (She has another car and doesn't drive this one much.)She said she didn't know the exact spot, but that it was somewhere on the driver's door. I searched that door over and over and pushed every button on it, but none opened the gas tank.

Then Zara started to cry. Great. I'm looking crazy in a hot gas station, surrounded by jail escapees and my daughter is WAILING. I hopped in the back seat and fed her, which was so awkward considering the situation. I know she was as hot as I was, but I had to cover her with her blanket to keep from giving the weirdos a peep show. I begged her to make it a quick snack, and luckily she did.

I put her back in her seat and got back out the car to tackle this door. I marched around to the other side of the car like I was ready to fight and started trying to slip my fingers in that tiny gap to pry the door open. You already know that didn't work. I kept fooling around with the door and praying that none of these scary onlookers offered help.

They didn't, the jerks.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of pressing on the door, hoping that it would magically pop open, I decided to press the other side. Voila. It was that simple. The door swung open with ease, almost mocking me. I could just hear it squeaking "You big dummy."

I quickly got my gas and drove the last two minutes home. I learned my lesson.



Zara's Mommy,
Nadirah

Zara's First Blow Out

This is going to take some getting used to. I'm used to being able to go and come as I please, do what I want when I want. If I wanted to go somewhere, I'd just grab my cell phone and lip gloss and hit the streets. Those days are gone. Zara isn't really taking a pacifier or bottle yet, so I rarely get to leave her home. So when I got a call from my cousin to take a trip to the City Marker, Zara had to come with me, which isn't a problem really. She's a pleasant baby that I love to be around, but she definitely put an end to my carefree days.

After getting her dressed, packing her bag with a bunch of things I may or may not need, tracking down her car seat and getting it installed in the car, I was ready to go. It wasn't a long ride and we were almost there when she started to wail, big time. I tried the whole "calm her down with my voice" tactic, but she wasn't having it. I had to pull over. So there I was on the side of the road, nuring my daughter in the back seat of a running car. I'm so not used to this.

I guess she had to get that one good cry in, because after that, she went to sleep and stayed sleep the entire time we were at the market. Of course, she decided to wake up when we sat down to eat at a delicious Vietnamese restaurant. So, I began my "holding, bouncing, discreetly nursing, all while trying to eat" juggling act.

That's when I felt it, the gigantic swatch of wet fabric on the back of her shirt. I flipped her over and tried to figure out where all this water came from. (Yes, I thought it was water at first.) It was my cousin, mother of a two-year-old, who clued me in: She had had (drum roll please) her first blow out. I had heard other parents speak of this phenomenon before, but paid it little attention. I was childless then and had no reason to listen to their stories of booboo mishaps. Now I have my own story. Luckily, I happened to have an extra pair of clothes in her bag. I took her into the bathroom (which wasn't child friendly) and managed to get her cleaned up and changed. I wrapped her dirty clothes up, put them in my bag, and thanked the Almighty that her booboo is still relatively odorless. I went back out into the restaurant and ate my now-cold food. It was still good. I was still happy. Just another day as a new mom.

Zara's Mommy,
Nadirah