Mothers are instinctually supposed to take the lead in the face of danger and possible injury. It's expected that we shield and savagely defend our offspring against any potential threats that we may saunter across. I have failed my children in this way. You see, my deeply seated fears have kept me from my important maternal duties.
Truth is, I'm terrified of touching the metal handles on the grocery store cooler cases because of the tremendous jolts of static electricity it gives me whenever I attempt the simplest of tasks. Winter time, summer time, doesn't matter, the doors still mockingly zap me with fervent aplomb. I actually clench my eyes tightly shut in fear and wrap my hands up in my shirt to avoid the inevitable, only to be thrust into a state of shock once again upon first contact with the handles of doom. No, not a state of shock, Jackson style. Now, that's truly terrifying. If I'm ever in the beginning throes of a heart attack, just plop me into a grocery cart and wheel me into the store next to all the metal coolers. It's sure to act as an impromptu defibrillator delivering life saving charges to my heart.
I have to actually psyche myself up for what seems like Mission Impossible 4: Got Milk? I'm not kidding about this at all. A few years ago I discovered how innocent and pure my trusting young flock of Infidels are, and how easily they could be manipulated into the sacrificial lamb role. I trained them from a young age to open the refrigerator case doors for me as I stood cowering at a safe distance. I'm so very ashamed of myself for using my children in this way. The older ones ridicule me because they liken the jolts to "getting energized," and they quite enjoy it. The younger ones worry about their otherwise brutish and fearless Mother anxiously fretting about and wringing her hands. I wonder if they realize that one day, they too, will grow up to do my dirty work?
I rue the day when my youngest child, Melody, turns 18. What will I do then? Will I have to recruit a crack team of tawdry milk and orange juice smugglers to get my daily fix? Maybe I'll have to start slipping some money to the dairy clerk to hand over the goods in small unmarked bottles so that nobody gets hurt? Perhaps, I'll just have another baby to postpone having to open the dreaded doors myself. What to do? What to do?