While walking down the Avenue of the local fashionably-hip crowd, I'm reminded of my early years in western NY. As a 20-something nerdlet, I lived in this yuppie neighborhood and walked the Avenue daily. On this particular afternoon, I'm with my husband and son, no longer young or hip, but content just the same.
We stop so our son can pet a dog; we watch as he tries to walk a "balance beam" in front of one of the shops; we peer into windows, amazed that certain places are still in business after all these years, and we marvel at the new businesses that have set up shop.
As will happen with the under-3 crowd, we have to pick up our little one and carry him a couple of times. My husband happens to be the lucky one holding him when an allergy attack strikes the poor little guy.
Sneeze after sneeze after sneeze.
Being the prepared mother that I am, I turn to my purse so that I can come to the rescue with my travel tissue packet.
I will clean that drip in no time!
Wait a minute, I know they're here.
Aaaachooo! (very moist sneeze)
Yes, I know they're in here somewhere.
Aaaachoooo! (the sneezes become more productive by the second)
I kneel to the ground to better scrounge around in my purse with both hands, and to double over with laughter, because I cannot for the life of me find the damn tissues! And I'm not the one holding the snot-laden child, so it's especially comical to me.
Eventually, I find something to wipe the nose.
But I wonder why it took me so long to find a tissue. I mean, I only carry the essentials in my purse. (Click to biggify)