The Supermarket Saga

When my children were very small, grocery shopping was tops on my list of household duties I hated.

The trips began with a long trudge through the parking lot, as I struggled to hold baby Bruiser’s two-ton carrier in one hand and a fidgety Punky in the other.  Once inside, I hooked Bruiser’s carrier over the cart handle and loaded Punky into the basket, where she would slowly be covered by produce, baby food jars and cereal boxes as we meandered from aisle to aisle. What should have taken 20 minutes on my own took well over an hour with the kids—I had to stop every few seconds to wipe Bruiser’s nose or answer one of  Punky’s thousand questions or make a potty pit stop or calm down Bruiser’s crying or explain to Punky why we really didn’t need to buy powdered donuts/ Little Debbie snacks/ potato chips/ Twix bars. Add to that my compulsive coupon clipping habit and burning need to get the best deal possible and, well.

NIGHTMARE.

Back then, I’d look enviously at the shoppers with older kids—kids who could walk on their own, wipe their own noses, and even help out by grabbing a few cans of soup for their moms, or a gallon of milk. “Some day, that will be me,” I’d mutter to myself, putting back the four boxes of Koo Koo’z Marshmallowz Gooey Puffz that Punky had managed to sneak in the cart when I wasn’t looking. “And it’s going to be AWESOME.”

Today, I am the mom I used to envy. My kids are six and nine years old now, and they can walk on their own. They can not only wipe, but even blow their own noses. And Punky gets the milk out of the dairy case for me, all by herself

But strangely, shopping with them really isn’t any easier. The obvious solution is to do the grocery shopping while the kids are at school but unfortunately, that’s not always possible. Last Wednesday, we desperately needed food, I had a zillion things going on, and my only option was to stop by the grocery store with the kids on the way home from school.

Bad idea. BAD, BAD IDEA.

“Okay, guys, we only have thirty minutes in here if we’re going to get to soccer practice on time,” I told them as we drove into the Kroger parking lot. “So we’re just going to zip in and out, okay?”

“Okay,” they both said gamely. Satisfied, I found a parking spot, hopped out of the car and opened the backseat door so that the kids could get out. Punky quickly stepped out of the car. Bruiser sat still.

“What are you doing?” I said. As if in slow motion, he reached over and unbuckled his seat belt.

“Did you hear me?” I asked him. “We. Are. In. A. Hurry. Come on!”

“I’m coming,” he said. “But I just took my shoes off.”

I stared at him. This was the moment when the younger me would have totally lost her cool. I’ve been doing the parenting thing for ten years now, though, and I’ve definitely mellowed a bit– at least on the outside. “Come here, Bruiser,” I said quietly, “and bring me your shoes.” Calmly, I took the sneakers he offered me, fumbled with them to undo the double knots, popped them back on his feet and re-tied them.My face may have been impassive, but my mind was running through every expletive I had ever heard in my lifetime. That, my friends, is what I call mothering at its finest.

Five minutes later, we were inside the supermarket’s double doors. Quickly, I grabbed a cart.

“I want to push a little buggy!” my daughter shrieked, running to where the child-sized carts were lined up.  I’m guessing Kroger is trying to be kid friendly with its child-sized carts, but the things drive me nuts. First off, both my children want their own cart, which means that I have to head up a freaking TRAIN of buggies that chugs through the grocery at a snail’s pace. I’ve resorted to making the kids share a cart, which doesn’t improve the situation. Whining and shoving ensues as they grapple for position at the cart’s helm. More often than not, the novelty of the kids’ cart wears off five minutes in, which leaves me to either push both carts by myself (nightmare) or make a long-ass detour to put the kids’ cart back. (nightmare part two)

All of this raced through my mind as my daughter ran to grab a kid cart.

“No!” I boomed sweetly. “I told you, Punky, we’re only here for a few minutes. We don’t need a kids’ cart!”

“Awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww,” both kids whined. I ignored them and pushed my adult-sized cart through the double doors. Within seconds, they were running past me to get to to the Kidz Klub Kookies. Our Kroger sets them out on the bakery counter, relying on the honor system to ensure that only Kidz get a Kidz Klub Kookie. That doesn’t work so well- Inevitably, my children have to wait for the swarm of seniors  always buzzing around those Kookies to dissipate before they can get their hands on one. I don’t mind- It gives me a few moments to myself to knock as much as I can off my grocery list before they return.

When my kids came back, mouths filled with Kookie, the verbal assault began.

“Can I have those chips? Those special chips that cost three times as much as all the other chips?”

“No.”

“Waaaaah, I dropped my cookie.”

“Go get another one. And put that one in the tra— Don’t you dare try to eat that! Put it in the trash and get another one!”

“Well then can I get those chips I had at Susan’s house?”

“What kind of chips were they?”

“The delicious ones.”

“How am I supposed to know what kind of chips those were?”

“They were crunchy!”

“No.”

“Mommy, can I get some candy?”

“No.”

“Can I get some cookies then?”

“We already have cookies at home.”

“But I don’t like those kind.”

“Then why did you pick them out?”

“I want NEW cookies.”

“No.”

“Can I get an apple for the teacher?”

“Yes.”

“I want an apple for my teacher too!”

“Okay, fine.”

This seemed like a good idea, initially, but the kids took eons to choose the perfect apples for their perfect teachers. Would it be golden delicious or gala? The decision was critical, clearly. Once the apples were selected, Punky insisted on weighing each one individually and then blowing on it and rubbing it like she saw once in a cartoon, before putting it into the bag. At this point, we had been at the grocery for 15 minutes. I had three things in my cart.

Oh hell.

“Okay, kids, I mean it,” I told them. “I have 20 more things on this list and 15 minutes left to shop. I need you to follow me and and keep quiet and let me get through this list.” Bruiser noded and climbed up onto the foot of the cart.

“Get down Bruiser,” I told him. “That really slows me down. I need to be fast.” He whined a little and then climbed up onto the side of the cart instead.

“Get down, Bruiser,” I told him. “I need you to walk today.” He whined a little more and stepped down. What happened next was something I’ve come to call the Ferrier Supermarket Shuffle. My daughter always insists on holding onto the grocery cart as she walks beside it. This doesn’t seem like a big deal– but it means that every time I try to turn the cart into an aisle, I have to stop and tell her  to turn too, or risk running over her foot. Meanwhile, my son always insists on walking IN FRONT of the cart at all times at a pace that could only be described as an amble. In this manner, we torturously made our way up and down each aisle. Fifteen minutes passed and we were nowhere close to done. The expletives were flowing freely in my mind once again, but outwardly, I remained calm. What else could I do?

Finally, we got to the checkout lanes, where I realized with dismay that Chatty Cathy was the only cashier with a register open. Chatty Cathy likes to comment on every item that comes down her conveyor belt. She also offers advice based on what you buy– homeopathic remedies for Athlete’s foot. A recipe that goes great with cilantro. An incredibly detailed story about the first time she ever tried an avocado.

Making it on time to soccer practice at that point was nothing but a dream. A full ten minutes after I entered Chatty Cathy’s line, I was finally, FINALLY on my way. Crying would have felt good, or perhaps kicking down a large display of soup cans but instead, I took a deep breath and tried to remind myself that it was JUST a practice, and JUST grocery shopping, and that I was so fortunate to have money to buy groceries and two healthy kids to go with me– and my positive thinking actually worked! I didn’t race home, I drove at a normal pace. I brought the groceries inside, got Bruiser dressed, and we headed out to practice, 15 minutes late. It wasn’t optimal, but it would have to do. Still, I couldn’t help but feel guilty as we drove to the soccer fields. Why couldn’t I get my son to practice on time? He only has one practice a week and he’s brand new on the team. What was wrong with me? It was so disrespectful to be late, and my excuse really wasn’t a good one. I was sure the coach was going to think I was That Mom, the one who was always late to everything for no real reason.

Once we arrived at the soccer fields, I hustled Bruiser out of the car, and noticed another parent doing the same thing one aisle over. The kids were hemming and hawing and their dad looked like he was about to burst a blood vessel as he retied shoes and grabbed balls and drinks and answered questions about bobcats and locomotives.  I realized who they were and grinned widely.

It was my son’s coach.

And all at once, the day looked a whole lot brighter.

 

Image via EdenPictures/Flickr