The children and I stand together, unified in our love for their father, as he turns the  kitchen upside down, slamming cabinet doors, whipping through shelves, tossing contents aside as he searches for any amount of it.

Mom. You did this to dad. My sweet children shoot an accusing eye at me.

My tears fall thick and fast. Yes. I know.

We listen as their father shouts to the air. “Damn it! I can’t believe there’s nothing in the house!”

“Please.” I reach for him, searching his eyes–hoping to see the man I used to know still inside. “I can go get you some. We’ll go together. You and me… it’ll be all right.”

I am the one who has done this to him. The one to blame for what the children are now witness to this weekend morning.

No one had warned this man in 1995 about striking up a conversation with a dark eyed, raven haired woman from Colombia. He had no idea all that came with a woman who as an infant was nursed on a mother’s breast milk that was equivalent to a double tall breve latte.

Before I darkened his door, this once even-keeled man’s lips had remained virgin to the roasted bean.

And now, he was hopelessly enslaved to a lifestyle he never imagined. In the same way as Robert Downey Jr’s father had been the first to place the maryjane pipe in li’l Bobby’s mouth and flip that switch; it was me who had seduced this unsuspecting man into taking the ceramic demitasse of Colombian espresso I had placed before him seventeen years ago, masking the devil’s beverage behind swirls of sweet cream and two sugar cubes.

“Kids.” I turn to my children. “Kids. Go on upstairs. Your dad will be okay. I’ll take care of it.”

“Yeah, mom, but he needs an ogre name for the days we run out of coffee.”

I shoo the children upstairs so they no longer have to see their father in his dependent condition. I take my husband’s trembling hand in mine.

“Come on!” I say as I push him out the door while shoving his coat at him. “The kids will be fine. Starbucks has this new House Dark Roast! You’re gonna love this stuff–it’ll make you feel like the back of your head is going to blow off.”

Photo Credit

My five-year-old daughter had a gift card to Barnes & Noble, so after work, I hauled both kids to the bookstore, stopping first at Starbucks (the one located inside the store that never has good pastries).  I began to question the lady at the register.

“So, in your estimation, how much caffeine is actually in this?”

“Uh, not much,” she said.

“What?  Not much caffeine in a freaking frappuccino?”  I stared at it like it was dead to me.  Like without caffeine, it was just a worthless, swirling mass of nothingness.  “How much compared to an espresso shot?  Do you know the milligrams?  Can you look it up in one of your handy little binders?”

“I really couldn’t say,” she said.  She rolled her eyes and tapped her little fingers on the register.  The lady behind me just gave me dirty looks.

So I gave up and headed for the children’s book section, heaving my one-year-old son forward in the stroller as my daughter went on ahead.  “Look, honey,” I said to my son, absentmindedly. “This one’s a pop up!”  I noticed an employee glaring at my son with disgust, so I rounded the stroller to check out the frontal view.

My daughter had apparently taken the opportunity during my caffeine rant to feed him old expired cookies found in the diaper bag, and now my son was chilling out, his shirt a bit too small and exposing his belly, covered in crumbs, with a book in his mouth.  He looked like a drunk guy eating a bag of chips.  Except creepier because he was eating a book.  With an incomplete set of teeth.

I wiped off the crumbs and re-shelved the books, and I heard my daughter.

“Hey mom!” she yelled.  “I have something to shoooow you!”

Another mom was sitting there reading quietly to her son and looked up – annoyed – to see if I could get this loud kid of mine under control.  When I finally eased the stroller down the aisle, cookie crumbs littering the carpet as I went bumbling by, my daughter showed me a pink box of crayons covered in princesses.

“What about books?” I cried. But it was her gift after all, and she could use it as she saw fit.  So I directed our little party to checkout.

There, some bored kid declared the price and grabbed the card from my daughter’s hand, swiping it before she had the chance.

“Wait!” I said.  “She wanted to do that!”

“Sorry,” he muttered.  “Too late.”

We were short, so at least my daughter was able to hand him an extra dollar.  I made a big deal out of it, handing her the money, instructing her to give it to the nice gentleman, to say thank you, and to ask for a receipt.  I glared at this punk with my alternate evil eye.

They probably all got together after work, the Starbucks lady and the children’s book shelver and the punk kid with braces.

“Did you hear that mom berating me about caffeine?”

“You mean the one who let her kid chew on a book like a rat and let her daughter scream across the store?”

“Yeah,” the punk says.  “She totally needs a life.  And an ironing board.”

The next time I head into Barnes & Noble, I’m not ordering a frappuccino.  I’m getting a double shot.  I’ll pay for it with pennies, dug out of my wrinkled pockets.

About the Writer:
I’m a Texas girl, born and raised in the hill country. I’m also an attorney and a mother of two. I like to wear nice clothes one day and slob around in a t-shirt the next.  I like to dance and sing and inspire others when I can. I’m married to a strong-willed West Texas lawyer, and together we laugh a lot.  I enjoy writing.  I wrote a novel, but it’s currently being rejected by most every agent in New York, so I’m not quitting my day job.
Amanda blogs at hill + pen

Amy, in case you don’t know, is the mascot AND patron saint of Aiming Low. She is truly the source of all unorthodox wisdom and crafty girl-knowledge and this is my story of how Amy came through for me…

The other day, my whole family overslept. When everyone was finally up and out of bed, we had no less than 20 minutes to get the kids to school on time. I know, I know… Amy Lo wouldn’t worry that much about her kids being late for school but Amy’s kids don’t go to the kind of school my kids go to. Being tardy? NOT acceptable.

So on this particular day, in addition to being late, my kids were both unusually tired and groggy and totally not ready to start the day. I knew I couldn’t send them out the door and off to school like that so after they wolfed down some breakfast, I looked at them, with their sleepy eyes, and suddenly, it hit me—an idea that could ONLY have been inspired by our patron saint of awesome herself…

I opened the freezer, took out a gallon of coffee ice cream and gave them each two big spoonfuls. I kissed them goodbye and sent them out to my husband’s waiting car.

And then I smiled because I KNEW Amy Lo was looking down on me from her martini glass up in the blogosphere and beaming with pride.

When you need Amy, she’s there for you. All you have to do is ask.

If you’ve ever had a truly Aiming Low moment of brilliance, chances are it was the hand of Amy Lo at work. Let us all bow our heads and give thanks for without her, what a beige, overachieving, follow-the-rules world it would be. Amen.