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Adventures in Grocery Shopping There is a thirty minute window of opportunity on any given day in which shopping can be accomplished in a relatively painless fashion. This golden time occurs when the children have exercised, are fed, and the baby’s diaper is clean. But more often, you find me staggering through the store aisles with a frenzied look on my face as I stuff cheese into the baby’s mouth, dart off to chase my three-year-old daughter, and drag my five-year-old along. By the time that I get to check-out, the two little ones are usually sobbing. John, our baby, who has yet to be weaned, tears at my shirt screaming "Boo." This causes me to start leaking milk, a development that makes the check-out people uncomfortable, as they cannot help but notice the giant, wet rings on my chest. As I struggle to unload the cart and hold onto John, who is trying to pull up my shirt, the two older kids catch sight of the candy display. "Mommy, can we have M&M’s? Please." Anton, my five-year-old, questions. "Momma, can I have gum?" Anne chimes in. "No-o!" I growl, receiving an appalled look from a grandmotherly woman standing behind me. "Anton, quit pinching your brother’s ear. Anne, get off of the floor now! Do you know how many germs are on this floor?! Don’t you spit on me! That’s disrespectful. Anton, leave you brother’s ear alone! FINE! Get the M&M’s!" I’m not always a spineless mommy. But there are few places as stressful as a grocery store for a mother of young children. It’s like negotiating one’s way through a treacherous swamp filled with unexpected dangers. The candy aisle is a case in point. And what cruel genius came up with selling kid’s toys in grocery stores? I go to buy a tube of toothpaste, and end up prying my daughter’s hands off of a Wonder Woman toothbrush. I try to select shampoo, and find myself in a ten minute negotiation with my oldest over hair spray. He wants to get some because he has alfalfa sprouts that stick up at the back of his head. I find them cute. He doesn’t, because "the Bachelor doesn’t have alfalfa sprouts." How can I argue with that? The trick to grocery shopping is to stick to the perimeter of the store, where fruits and vegetables, dairy, meats, and fish are found. Not only are the middle aisles less healthy and more expensive, they are, I’m convinced, deliberately set up to torture moms with kids. "Can I have Buzz Lightyear gummy snacks?" Anton asks. "I want this," Anne announces, holding up a box of sugar cereal. "No, Anne. They’re not good for you. Let’s get Cheerios. You like Cheerios." "I hate Cheerios!" "We’re not getting that cereal. Please put it back." She hurls the box to the floor. "You’re a stepsister, Momma." This is Anne’s greatest insult as she is a major Cinderella fan. My husband, who does most of our grocery shopping, doesn’t understand the terror and fear that the thought of such an expedition engenders in my heart. There are two fundamental differences between his trips to the store and my own. First of all, he is very organized and always enters the store with a list and a game plan. He refuses to get bogged down. He has a certain order by which he proceeds through the store. Second, he always shops alone or with one child. So, he’s in and out in twenty minutes. Among the many shopping excursions that I have sought to forget, one reigns supreme. It was shortly after the birth of our third child. I had stopped at a local store to get some milk. This was, of course, the kiss of death, because once in that Bermuda triangle of Pop tarts, ice cream, and potato chips, you never escape unscathed. It all started when Anton suddenly tugged on my arm, causing me to drop a jar of applesauce. It shattered. Anne slipped in the applesauce, fell, and got some on her dress. She immediately began to writhe on the floor and scream. The baby started to cry, and I noticed that his diaper was suspiciously heavy. At this point, I observed that Anton had opened a box of cookies and was munching away. As the volume of John’s screaming grew exponentially, I realized that I had to feed him, here and now. So, I sat right down and began to breastfeed surrounded by applesauce jar debris, a screaming toddler, and a preschooler who was now eating peanut butter with his fingers. My entourage was clearly disturbing the store attendants who asked me several times if I "needed any assistance." But no, I assured them that "I was fine." Somehow, we made it through the next fifteen minutes. I even managed to gather meal supplies for the next several days. I made it through check-out, exhausted but satisfied with my accomplishments in the face of daunting odds. An attendant asked me: "Drive up or push out?" I responded: "Drive up, please." I dragged my brood out to the car, and struggled to change John’s diaper in the car seat. Afterwards, he again wanted to nurse. Then, Anne and Anton got into a fight. Ten minutes later, I finally pulled up to curbside pick up. "Number 12," I muttered to the teenager who came up to my window. "12," he repeated with a strange expression on his face. "Just a minute, please." He walked back into the store. A few minutes later, he returned accompanied by a store manager. "I’m sorry, but there appears to have been some confusion. Your groceries were mistakenly given to someone else." "You’re kidding, right?" "Excuse me?" The manager shouted, trying to communicate with me over the screaming kids in my car. "You didn’t really give away my groceries, did you?" At any moment, a group of singing employees was going to rush out and give me some sort of prize for being the fifty thousandth shopper, or maybe someone was catching this scene for Candid Camera. "I’m afraid that we did. You can take your receipt and go back in and select the same items again." I swallowed hard. I couldn’t do it again. Torquemada, the store manager, had no idea what he was suggesting. I pulled a scrap of paper from my purse. I scribbled down my details. "Here’s my address. Please mail me a refund." "Are you sure?" "Oh yes." Whenever I see a mother shopping with kids, wearing the haggard expression of the sisterhood of victims of grocery stores, my heart goes out to her. I have concluded that shopping-with-children woes are like labor pains; they are insignificant and meaningless next to the joy of our children. And I’m very grateful that my husband actually enjoys shopping. Caroline Akervik is a freelance writer whose humorous reflections on family life have been published in both print publications and on e-zines. Her romantic suspense novel, Calypso’s Secret, written under the pen name Isabelle Kane, will be released by Whiskey Creek Press in May of 2005. Look for more of her work at www.isabellekane.com. |
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