Because I only needed a few things and had been weakened by plaintive cries of “don’t put me in a trolley! I won’t touch any-fing!”, Tilly strutted through the supermarket this morning. Wooed by what I calculated would be at least an 80% reduction in whinging, I failed to consider: The 75% increase in time taken from entry to checkout, The 82% surge in my yelling (most of which was solely devoted to shouting “put that down!” in the egg and wine sections), A solid 36% more shin bruising thanks to her basket being swung about with gay abandon, An 8% price hike due to a little chocolate egg being snuck in when I wasn’t looking (to be fair, that probably happened while I was ferreting Creme Eggs deep under the bread bag hoping she wouldn’t notice), And a 147% spike in adrenaline when she momentarily disappeared as I was swiping the credit card. Numbers are not my strong point.
Tilly was so overcome by the sheer excitement of being next to try on “lipick” she derped the derpiest face I’ve ever witnessed. Props to the awesome lady at Bobbi Brown for indulging little-girl dreams so this mama could find the perfect daytime red lippy.
Sometimes a trip to the supermarket is an opportunity to teach my children about colors, numbers and healthy food choices. Other times it’s an opportunity to wonder if I can swap both kids for a bottle of Chardonnay and a rotisserie chicken.
It’s like grocery shopping with a small, noisy goat. On the upside, “holding” the shopping list keeps her passably quiet. On the downside, she generally chews/rips it and won’t give it back to me to check what’s written on it, so I always forget a bunch of stuff. With child #1, I would have worried that fellow shoppers were judging me for letting my child possibly ingest paper; but she’s the second child, so I enjoy the quiet and count it as her afternoon tea.
While attempting to pay for Jeremy’s socks in a menswear shop, I pulled my wallet out of my bag with a bit more enthusiasm than strictly necessary (it looked like it was tangled in a nest of wipes, muslins and Sophie the Giraffe). The sheer force dislodged a spare pair of Amy’s knickers from the depths of my bag, and sent them scudding across the counter until they finally came to rest on the computer terminal. The red-faced (male, just-made-through-puberty) shop assistant pushed them back across the counter to me as I gibbered on about them belonging to my daughter. Judging by the look on his face, combined with the fact that the only daughter in evidence was a three-month-old, I don’t think he was buying it. So now I just look like a crazy lady who a) attempts to seduce shop boys by flinging knickers at them, and b) wears pink knickers with owls on the front that are obviously too small. Could have been worse, I guess…they could have been a pair of …