Hands Are Full

I have two weeks to get this story out before I no longer can compare myself to this superstar.  Her 4^th babe (an actual girl) is in the belly, so here goes:

Ok, I get it.  I’m not rocking Victoria Beckham’s style as she artfully guides her 3 boys through Manhattan, London, or any airport.  Maybe my long hair, (which I refuse to cut, because it is the only thing left on me that mildly resembles my childless self) looks a little ratsnesty in the back. Maybe my eyewear that was so ‘in’ 5 years ago, sits slightly (or not so slightly) tilted across my nose. Maybe wrangling 3 small people whose limb movements could make them strong contestants in an ancient tribal dance competition while I’m trying to check out of Target makes me look a little…..challenged.

But really, is there an evil conspiracy among ALL check-out line people where the words: “Oh, you’ve got your hands full, don’t you?” must spill from their mouths, giving way to the complimentary look of pity, couched in a small smile?

Enough already, I get it!  I look harried, stressed, overwhelmed, green with my management of 3!  For the love of god, check-out people, just tell me I look like Victoria Beckham at Heathrow.