I hoist Tanya high up on my hip and juggle ten additional items. The diaper bag, car keys, my wallet, ready cash, a Dora sippy cup, a large packet of diapers, two bottles of Gerbers, a baby thermometer, candies and a tourist map highlighting nearby attractions.
Inching along the checkout queue at the supermarket, I receive looks of sympathy from people around me. I politely decline an offer of a cart. The minute I set Tanya down, those sympathetic looks would turn to looks that kill. My two year old can break ear-shattering pitch records of the opera. As my turn comes I place the items on the counter and hand over the cash.
“Certificate dahling?” she drawls.
“Eh?” I draw a blank. “No food coupons. All cash.”
“This eez Venezuela. You want baby items, show me birth certificate? No certificate, no buy.”
“You’re kidding, right?” I say, exasperated. The mere thought of spending two more minutes hashing out technicalities seems undoable now. I do the next best thing I can, guaranteed to get me out of here with all of it, certificate or not. I seat Tanya on the counter.
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