So you know when you're unloading the groceries from the car and you're already a bit peaved due to the lack of space in your trunk because of the existance of the Jeep Cheroke-size stroller (oh how it looked so good in Kids-r-us)... anyway. You're in your garage unloading 2 weeks worth of groceries and, all at the same time strapped to one arm, of course, and your wife yells down from the opposite continent in the kitchen "is the kid down there?" and you yell back after a quick glance "no" with an underlying "i have half of Wlamart hanging on my left arm!", and you give a quick glance into the basement before hauling the equivelant of Lourdes salary (star cashier at said Walmart) up tot the kitchen only to then return to the basement garage to see your one-and-a-half year old strolling unabashedly towards the street because she mischieviously snuck behind you while you were decifering in the back seat of your Plymouth Neon (no longer in production - in ministerial language we say "limited edition" - even though it only means that Plymouth tanked and Dodge took over) what was grocery and what was "keep the kid quiet" accessory and for the first time regret every mischievious thing you ever did as a pre-teen, teen, and young adult because you just had the epiphany that you past that "what can I get away with" mindset on to your eldest offspring? You know that feeling? Do you know that feeling? No? Good. Me neither.
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