No one can put their hands on my squatter but ME! She's mine...all mine...and I love hanging out with her while Mommy does her stupid quick errands.

Oh, how I’ve missed my squatter.

A squatter sits in the car with Alex while I run in to buy last-minute ingredients needed to make dinner (I can’t be bothered to make a grocery list, and if I do write one I always leave it at home or my front seat anyway).  A squatter holds Alex while I bring in said groceries, eliminating the possibility of a pouty face, primal scream, or full-out meltdown. A squatter distracts Alex with a silly face while I pull his weapon-of-the-moment–broom, fly swatter, hairbrush, whatever–away from his grasp.

A squatter makes me a SuperMommy who smells super good. No sacrificing showers when the squatter is in da house!

I am not above bribing my teenager with her favorite Arnold Palmer Iced Tea, Starbucks Frappucino, or, yes, even cold hard cash for her squatter services. Wouldn’t you spend a couple bucks for super powers? Come on, now.

I would have never been able to get my rug home in the rain without my squatter services. No way.

Today, I was able to purchase an area rug I put on hold without schlepping Alex, his overpacked diaper bag, and his stroller that isn’t closing quite right in during a torrential downpour. I simply double-parked the car, instructed Ashley to call my cell if the cops descended on the scene, and hightailed it into Home Goods. The sales guy–who happened to have secret master contortonist abilities–even had time to fold the 8 x 10 carpet so it would fit in my trunk (I have a sedan and a way of convincing people they can do things a la Barack Obama). I topped off my toddler-free run with a stop for chicken breasts. It was exhilerating.

When I got back in my car, I thanked Ashley profusely for her help, gushing about how liberating it is to go into stores by myself–even for a few minutes. I even got greedy and visualized peeing by myself with the door closed when I got home, too. You know what she said?

“If you’re getting this excited about a rug and a chicken you really need to get out more.”

Okay, so my squatter’s not perfect (thankfully, I kept my pee fantasy to myself). She has a great sense of sarcasm (from me, perhaps?), gets a little freaked out by drool, and doesn’t do diapers…but she squats. And squatting means a lot.

Welcome home, Ashley Rose.

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