Grocery store adventure with three kids results in lots of breakfast food, an attempted escape and precious moments.
Sometimes you are impossible.
Yes, you, my three beautiful children, fruit of my womb, apple of my eye and heart of my heart. You are wonderful. You are lively. You are imaginative and independent and afraid of almost nothing. But YOU GUYS, you can drive me to a level of crazy I never knew existed.
We went to the supermarket one day, our first official grocery run after moving into our new old house. It was after school and I took all three of you, a feat I usually avoided due to past experience and good, old-fashioned common sense. But our schedule had changed, our neighborhood had changed, everything had changed and our refrigerator was empty. So there we went, the four of us, Mama doing some Hail Marys as we pulled into the parking lot.
I chose Publix because of the 2-seater race car carts. Perfect for twin boys, no? NO. Evidently not. You, the twins, and you, their big sister, cried out in protest that any mother would ever dare confine her child to such a prison. (You are nothing if not advocates for justice.) My insistence won over at first, but five combinations of riders and walkers later, none of you was left in the cart and a boy with blonde hair disappeared around the shampoo aisle. (How am I supposed to tell you apart when you’re sprinting in the other direction?!)
Transportation issues aside, let’s talk about product selection for a moment.
All you wanted was breakfast food. All breakfast, all the time. Give you some Pop Tarts and cereal and granola bars and you are gone, whisked to sugar heaven on a cloud of carbs, not a protein in sight. And can I tell you something? I didn’t even care. Thank the good Lord our first five minutes in the store were spent in the produce section, because at least then I was still capable of rational decisions. After that, anything edible and whine-stopping was fair game.
Apple Jacks? Sure! Pepperoni? Awesome! Popsicles? Throw it in the cart! Orange juice for the boy with the OJ addiction, apple juice for the boy with the AJ addiction and Gatorade for the girl with the scratchy throat. Done, done and done.
A firm “no candy” discussion and more cart-hopping later, and we were through the line and out the door – praise God from whom all Merciful Baggers Who Load Groceries Into Minivans flow.
Forget the fact that we arrived home with loads of food but no actual meals, we survived. And in the great parenting tally in the sky, that has to count for something, right?
We had breakfast for dinner that night (obviously) and you three were happy as larks, what with your new cereal and your new milk at your new dining room table in your new old house. And here’s the crazy thing: I was happy, too.
Sometimes you are impossible. Sometimes I wonder how we get from morning to night with all your limbs and a shred of my sanity intact. But I would never in a million years wish someone else were your crazy mama, your grocery getter, the one who gets to chase you through the aisles while flashing a forced, flustered smile at concerned onlookers.
The next morning, I managed to make three lunches from that hodgepodge of groceries before sending you, little girl, off to school with your papa. Then I took you, little boys, to your school, put your snacks on the snack table and kissed you goodbye. Walking down the hall I heard OJ Addict exclaim to the teacher, “Look! Mama knowed I wanted owange juice!” And I smiled all the way to the car.
I know you and your crazy and you know me and mine. And that is exactly the way it is meant to be.
This post was written by Amanda Bible Williams is mom to twin boys and a spunky daughter. Editorial Director of SheReadsTruth, Amanda lives and works in a loud farmhouse just outside Nashville, Tennessee.
