Mom Sh*t. All. Day. Long.

As a writer, I’ve been asked where I draw my inspiration from. Honestly, it requires little more than going out in public and observing the behaviors of my fellow humans.

Yesterday, I shopped at a wholesale superstore. You know… the type of place where each shopping cart is the size of a spare bedroom. Per usual, I refused to touch the cart handle because I’m a germaphobe. So, I gracefully pulled the cart alongside me like it was my prize pony trying to earn a ribbon at the state fair.

After I purchased my items, I made my way toward the exit. Passing a little food court area, I noticed some noise and commotion. I spotted a frazzled-looking mom who was sporting a t-shirt that said, “Doing mom shit. All. Day. Long.” True to her shirt… she WAS doing mom shit. She attempted to wrangle her three young children (ages two, four, and six, by the looks of it.) One of them was throwing a tantrum on the floor. Another had his arm halfway down the trash can as if he was looking for something. The oldest child repeatedly smacked herself on the forehead with a half-empty plastic water bottle.

Most shocking of all was that the husband was sitting in the middle of all this pandemonium and did nothing to help his wife. He just continued gnawing at his hotdog with a vacant look in his eyes that said, “I didn’t picture my life ending up like this.”