Motherhood in Aisle 7

A few months back I tried getting this household on some kind of schedule. I thought this would help corral the general mayhem and chaos...that is my life. The plan went something like this: meal planning and grocery shopping on Sunday mornings, laundry on Mondays and cleaning on Thursdays. Writing that last sentence makes my head feel wobbly. Like it could teeter right off the top of my neck if I added one more domestic chore to that list.

PAY BILLS!

Excuse me if you will, while I rest my forehead on this keyboard... jjjjjjjjjgi ru.hauztWG A.awh .rjfhusliugaw

Anyway, the whole schedule thing mostly worked, and a better person than I would have stuck to the schedule. A better person than I would also take the stairs as opposed to the escalator, but you probably know which way I lean when faced with those options. Conclusion: I am a woman who cannot stick to a housework schedule and enjoys the whirring sound of an escalator.

Since ditching the schedule, we're back to making multiple, no...daily trips, to the grocery store during the week. So last week the girls and I were out and about. On the way home from all our abouting, we stopped at the grocery store for dinner. I should note here that this is not my “regular” grocery store, but the one just off the interstate that I infrequently shop whenever I take that route home. When I do shop there, it takes me three times as long to find things such as creme of tartar. You guys, I’m not even kidding you about the creme of tartar; it’s an actual thing.

Also, whenever I ask one of the grocery store employees [easily identified by their burgundy, polyester vests] where one can find XYZ, they look as though they'd sooner stab me in the eye then point me in the direction I need to go. [Yeah, I’m looking at you produce guy!] It’s not like I ask them to geomap the damn store, I just want to be steered in the general direction so my fish won’t spoil in the hours it would otherwise take me to locate the canned tomatoes on my own. It’s about time those store people channel they’re anger where it rightfully belongs: on their burgundy, polyester vests.

This store has a way of making everyone buzzy and irritable, so naturally, I let the girls push around those irritating miniature shopping carts. 

Here they are in action:

Now, other than the obvious risks these carts pose to the safety and welfare of the other customers and store staff; they have other disadvantages as well. Mainly, one’s inability to control and reign supreme over the items you, the adult, have chosen to place in the cart.

Example A: The other week Ben and I, along with Heidi, made a stop at the grocery store. As usual Heidi pushed one of these little ankle crackers around the store aisles while Ben and I mindlessly tossed random groceries into the cart.

Ben lets me know he’s just going to grab something in another aisle. He returns with a box of condoms and then patiently waits for his opportunity to stash them in the kiddy cart. So when Heidi became distracted by the frost build-up near to the cream cheese, he took the opportunity and hid them under a bag of chips in the cart. Heidi is only two, so it’s not like she’s knows what they are, but other people with their judging eyes would. We’re not going to walk around with our kid pushing a box of condoms in her miniature size cart. No, this will most definitely convey a degree of trashiness that I’d prefer to save-up for our other parenting fails, like bathing our kids with baby wipes.

Heidi notices the rustling in the cart and suspects Ben has tried to slip something by her, and my friends, Heidi does not roll with the punches; she does not go with the flow. No, Heidi digs a twelve inch hole in the ground, stands in it and whips dirt at your eyes until you give in. So when I reached down and tried blocking her hands from pulling back the chips, she nearly flipped the cart. Ben has wandered ahead, and I’m frantically trying to pry her little fingers off the bag. BEN! BEN! BEN!

“What?”

“Can you please come back here and help me out?” Nudge-nudge, wink, wink.

“What?”

“Your daughter wants to move THE bag of chips!”  Again with the nudge-nudge, wink, wink.

“Ohhhh, THE chips...gotcha.”

So while Ben distracted her with his keys, I buried the box deep under the zucchini and she eventually lost interest. High kicks and fist pumps all around; the grown-ups outwitted the girl who can’t tie her shoes! We should write a parenting book or something.

In the end, we managed to finish up our shopping and retain a small degree of dignity. Check-out went as usual. Heidi ransacked the lower level check-out lane shelves. Then she followed-up her debauchery with a proper temper tantrum after her hopes for a candy bar were dashed. Whereby she dug a pit and chucked dirt in our faces.