The grocery store can be terrifying. You never know what’s going to happen. It always starts out good enough, I got my purse stocked up with snack traps, sippy cups, extra goldfish, and plastic trucks. That should get me through each aisle unscathed, right?
I used to love the grocery store. Yup, I said it, LOVE. There’s something so relaxing to me about going slowly through every aisle, surrounded by the things I love, my thoughts are my own. And seriously, it’s the ability to spend money, and it’s justified! Read: GUILT FREE.
Lately? Notsomuch. We get through the produce alright, Owen snacks on his bite-sized treats, and gets excited to play with the thin plastic bags that come off in rolls (don’t judge, seriously, I give him a plastic bag to play with, I have to pick my battles here people, not like I’m walking away and letting him put it over his face). He sometimes gets a little angry if I won’t let him hold an onion, but he calms down quickly enough.
Next off to the frozen foods, nibble, nibble, nibble… Oooh, look at the hanging leaves on the ceiling! As we approach the center of the store, things start to fall apart. Those goldfish? Start hitting the floor. Before I know it, I have a handfull of dirty goldfish in my pocket, and the 5 second rule does not apply in stores. “You’re being fresh, mummy’s taking away the goldfish”. To which I replace the snack trap with his little red fire engine. This gets us through a couple more aisles, and undoubtedly ends up with his truck being thrown at least 10 feet in the opposite direction from where I am walking. And I end up being that embarrassed mama going to fetch it. I do a lot more “shouldn’t we be nice at the store?” and “we do not throw our toys”. All lost on a 13-month old.
By the soup aisle we’re in full tantrum mode. Why, Market Basket, do you feel the need to sporadically place balloons throughout the store, when you know they’re my son’s favorite toy??? And by doing this, you make him mad, because he sees them, and cannot have them, which in turn, makes me miserable. Thanks a lot, jackasses.
Anyway, by the milk and cheese aisle (almost there!) I’m ignoring him. I’ve done distractions, I’ve sang songs, I’ve raced through the aisles speeding the cart up while replicating the “duh-duh” sounds of Jaws approaching in the water. All are successful, but none for too long. I just need to focus. I need to make sure I have the makings of at least one full meal. I am that mom. The mom I always watched thinking “her child is being awful, she’s ignoring him. My child won’t do that, and if he does, we’ll leave the store.” Oh yeah, me-from-the-past? Serves you right. I gotta get my groceries, and come Hell-or-high-water I’m going.to.get.these.groceries. Because I am certainly not coming back here anytime soon.
We’ve made it, he is able to push the buttons on the credit card swiper (that’s the technical term, obviously) and he’s happy while they bag the groceries and he can talk to the teenager who’s haphazardly throwing things into the cart. We get to the car. He (without fail) screams as I put him into his car seat. I get in the car. I breathe. I survived.
Now how the hell will I get these groceries in the house?