Discount Bin

As Vesla goes back to work I am spending more and more time with my daughter. This new found companionship is both a blessing and a challenge. I am a new father but in no way does that make me a clueless one. The combination of being one of seven children, my natural gifts with animals and my creative mind give me a bit of an upper hand when it comes to parenting. It is still a bit draining when she won't take a bottle, or when I let her cry herself to sleep because there isn't anything I can do to sooth her.

Today though, those difficulties were far from my mind as I walked into the grocery store with Zilla under my arm. I was feeling proud and capable and I fielded the approving glances and coos from my fellow shoppers with grace and humility. I grabbed a shopping basket and quickly found the few items I was there for. In the checkout line, with Zilla still nestled in the crotch of my arm, I deftly placed my items on the belt and grabbed a box to place them in. As I paid, the couple next to me in line asked me how old she was and couldn't believe it when I said that she was already 3 months and a mere 10lbs (their son was 6 weeks and pushing 15). I began to explain that she was born small when a third couple got in line with another baby and a toddler and again asked how old she was, what her name was, told me that she was beautiful, etc... I beamed as Zilla smiled on cue and looked into my eyes. "What a good dad." said the elderly woman in the row next to me who apparently had been there for some time but I hadn't noticed. "Thanks" I said humbly and raised my hand as a gesture indicating that this "Super Dad" had to take his perfect daughter home.

So there I was, the model father with his organic produce in a recycled box with an audience of nearly a dozen smiling and wishing me well. I smiled back and began to take my leave. I waved once more and watched as each one of their approving expressions fell and were replaced by looks of horror and concern when I, without hesitation, placed Zilla into the box with the produce and pickles, picked the whole precious package up, and turned towards the door. This to me was the best way to carry each of the items without dropping any of them. To the newly formed grocery store parenting group this was a sign of ineptitude and perhaps even some sort of new child abuse. I hurried to the car before any of them could say a word and burst my already somewhat deflated ego bubble.

In my defense, there were no pineapples or artichokes in the box.