Every week I go to the grocery store. My son’s eat the equivalent of a heard of 50 oxen and sometimes I find myself apologizing to the checkout lady for how much shit I have to purchase. I try to make light of the situation.
“I’m buying for an orphanage,” I say jokingly. Her reaction is on par with me telling her I have coupons.
Because of weather, I did not feel like grocery shopping yesterday. Sunday is my typical day to do it. I knew I would regret my decision but I was going to live in the moment and type out another blog post (see my dedication).
After having to stop 3 times this morning to scrape ice off my windows; at one point sure I was going to be hit on the side of the road, I was already done with the day.
Since I chose not to get groceries Sunday I decided to do it directly after work. That was a really stupid choice especially when I suffer from hangerisism (becoming a complete bitch when hungry).
In the grocery store I came across my first prey that annoyed me. It was a “16 and pregnant-esque” matriarch in the soup/condiment aisle. Following behind her was probably her 12 year old sister and her 5 year old kid. She dressed appropriately in her pink and black polka dot pajamas with her hair swept up into a bun.
“Ess-cuse me,” she said as she rolled her eyes as if she was the Queen of England and I was clearly in her way.
I held my ground and stayed in my place as she and her court walked around me.
‘Just try me,’ I thought.
I was so annoyed and aggravated. I wanted her to challenge me at this point. I wasn’t on my period, yet I felt crazy enough to deal with this hot mess.
Next aisle? The caravan.
Shall we talk about the caravan for a moment? So your child gets to an age where they want to ride in the “car basket.” What is the car basket? Aside from the car basket being a complete germ infestation, it is single handedly the most dreaded contraption of all parents.
After you pick out the fruit snacks and make a futile attempt to wipe the car down with antibacterial wipes, your child usually finds a complete cookie at the bottom of the caravan and proceeds to eat it. Usally this cookie was handled by that child with green snot and a kool-aid mustache.
Uselessly you threaten your kid, “I’m cool with you driving the car but if you are going to drive the car you have to stay in it.”
23 minutes later, they are out of the stupid car, walking next to you, veering off every 3 God damn minutes demanding a bakery cookie.
At checkout you are usually a hollow individual at this point yet your child “wants to help” and how can you say no to that? They climb up the little part of the car and begin to remove all the groceries found on top of the car because they refused to let you place the items inside “their car.”
“Sticker, I want a sticker mommy!” is usually the next demand.
It’s with silent gratification that you slap a PAID sticker on your child in lieu of a Pokemon, Spiderman or Barbie sticker. If he thinks he is going to have all these demands then a neon green, PAID sticker is all they are going to get.