Grocery Shopping (aka Hell)

Grocery Shopping (a.k.a. Hell)

The grocery store at 5 o'clock in the evening may well be one of Dante's Circles of Hell. Let me make one thing clear from the get-go: I do not take my children anywhere during the Witching Hour. Unless it's the occasional dinner out. From about 4:30 until, well, bedtime, they are whiny and clingy and I would rather not claim them in public.

So how did I end up at the grocery store with both my children at 5:30 pm? Well, that's really a whole nother story. Suffice it to say this: my husband had to borrow my mother's car, so I was giving her a ride home from work. She really needed to stop by the store. She was nice enough to loan us her car… so, there we were.

We had decided to grab a rotisserie chicken for dinner, so I wanted to get this trip over with as quickly as possible, get home, and feed the kids. They, of course, sense my urgency like a dog smells fear and therefore move as slowly as humanly possible. We walk into the store after minimal "who's holding whose hand" arguing, and I grab a cart.

"Oh…" my mother looks concerned. " I told Sophie we could use one of those…" She points at the shopping cart/ kiddie car combo she has obviously never used herself. My two year old appears to be on the brink of tears, so I hang my head and grab the impossible to steer car-cart. Once I wrestle it out of its parking spot, my older daughter, Catie, begins to cry because she doesn't want to ride in any cart; she wants to walk. I begin my yoga breathing. We make it through the produce section just fine with Catie walking. She doesn't even take a bite out of any random apples or peaches. So far it's a banner trip for us. At the deli my little one starts to fall apart because they are all out of cheese samples. We make our way to the bakery for the free hard-as-a-rock cookies they have for kids while Grandma finishes up at the deli. The cookie placates Sophie for a few aisles, but my older one is too busy whining that she would prefer a free doughnut. So would I sweetie, so would I.

About this time I discover my mom told Catie that if she behaved in the store she could get some Pop-Tarts. I mumble a "whatever…" and lead the way to the Pop-Tart aisle. It's just not worth the argument at this point. I'll just hide the box when we get home. The choices in Pop-Tarts are staggering these days, really. "Okay," I say, "pick one because we need to go. Daddy's going to be home soon." Yes, yes, I am playing the Daddy card. Maybe it will encourage them to get done and out of here. "NO!" Catie yells. "These aren't Pop-Tarts!" Now I'm starting to question my sanity. I could have sworn I was looking at row after row of blue boxes full of zero nutritional value. But what do I know. With Grandma getting o.j, I am the only one here who can read. "You know!" she says to me. "Pop-Tarts! Not these! I don't want these!" At this point I honestly have no idea what she's talking about. "Well, gee, I guess they must be all out," I say, all the while trying to back the car-cart out of the aisle because there's no way its going to turn around with its ridiculously bad turning radius. "Walk!" yells the two year old. She has been pretty good, so I get her out of the "car" and we head down an aisle toward the checkout lines. It happens to be the plastic container aisle. Both girls run and pretend to hide behind a cardboard display shelf. Naturally, they knock it over. Naturally, the Tupperware-like containers and lids it was displaying go flying all down the length of the aisle. Luckily, no one else is in the aisle. I'm struggling to find my yoga breaths at this point and starting to get a little loopy. "Well, at least they weren't made of glass!" I say and stand the oh-so-sturdy cardboard shelves back up. The girls "help" pick up and we eventually manage to fit all the containers back into their cardboard home. Now, I am done. I make both girls get in the car of the car-cart and we get in line to check out. Catie's still trying to explain to Grandma what a Pop-Tart really is and Sophie starts making horse sounds. Ah, yes, the horse. One of those old metal kinds you can seriously ride for a penny. How can I refuse them a penny?

"Okay," I say, " while Grandma's checking out, let's go ride the pony." Catie has by now spotted the checkout line candy and so refuses to go, but Sophie is thrilled. Sophie gets her pony ride, pats and kisses (blech) it goodbye, and we head back. Not a chance Grandma is done checking out yet. Now that she has convinced Grandma to buy her some candy, Catie launches into an impressive campaign to get her own pony ride. Might as well let her, I figure. During her seemingly hour-long ride, Sophie decides to "feed" the pony.

"Apple" she signs to me with a big grin. "That's right sweetie, horses eat apples, don't they?" I smile at her. Just then my horse rider shrieks "NO!" like someone's trying to kidnap her. I'm standing right next to her, keep in mind. "What?" I shriek back, thinking maybe she has hurt herself on the ancient pony. "This horsy is a carnivore! It doesn't eat apples! It is a carnivore just like a T-Rex! Stop feeding it apples!" Oh for heaven's sake. Someone tell me this is a joke, please. Thankfully the pony ride ends and I grab both their hands and head for the exit. Sophie is crying because Catie yelled at her and she still wants to feed the pony apples. She pulls her make-my-body-limp-so-they-have-to-drag-me fit, so I let her lay on the grocery store floor (blech). "Bye, we're leaving," I say, and suddenly, miracle of miracles, her legs work again.

We head for the car, meeting Grandma and her bags of groceries along the way. By now my husband has text-messaged me "Home. Dinner??" I'm too irritated to reply. I get both girls buckled into their car seats and the groceries loaded into the back. Just as I put the key in the ignition I hear "Mommy? I have to pee." No way I'm going back in there. "Hold it!" I urge her and pull out of the parking lot of Hell and head home as fast as the little speed limit will carry me. Next time Grandma needs to run to the store, we're waiting in the car.

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