For the record, I hate shopping. Hate it. (Unless I’m at Target, obvi) Out of all the things I have to shop for, I really hate shopping for groceries the most. But shopping for groceries with kids in tow is like a whole new level of hell that you can’t really even understand unless you’ve been there (and if you’re reading this, you have most likely been there.) Let’s go there together now…aisle by aisle…
Tell me if any of this sounds familiar…
Scene: Me, lovingly putting overpriced apples into a bag
Kid: Mom, can I have one of the plastic bags?
Kid: Why not?
Me: Because. Those bags can be dangerous.
Kid: (laughing like I’m an idiot) Dangerous? How can a plastic bag be dangerous?
Me: You could put it on your head and then you couldn’t breath. Plus, the other shoppers will look at me and judge me for giving you a plastic bag. I can’t go there today.
Me: Fine. Just don’t put it on your head.
2 minutes later…bag on head
Kid: Hey Mom, look, I made it into a hat!
Me: Hand it over.
Scene: Me pushing the big red button to receive my number. It’s a long way off. Peruse the presliced meats and try to decide if I should just buy a pound of sort of gross, presliced boiled ham rather than wait…
Kid: Can I push the button, too?
Me: No. It’s too busy. There are too many people. You can’t just take all the number tickets.
Me: Fog out
Kid: push push push push push
Me: What the…
Kid: Look at all the numbers I got!
Deli guy: number 187
Me: That’s me
Other deli guy: number 188
Me: That’s me
Deli girl: number 189
Me: That’s me. 190 is me, too. We have up thru 195. I have kids with me (as if that explains it, because it sort of does.)
Every. Other. Aisle.
Scene: Me trying to shop quickly, economically, and healthfully. Kids trying everything to thwart that effort.
Kid: Mom! Look! Coco Puffs! Can we get them?
Kid: Mom! Look! Lucky Charms! Can we get them?
Kid: Mom! Look! Cinnamon Toast Crunch! Can we get it?
Me: Ooh, yummers! Yes! But that is the only thing off our list that we are getting.
Kid: Mom! Look! Halloween Oreos! Can we get them?
Kid: Mom! Look! Halloween Chips Deluxe! Can we get them?
Kid: Mom! Look! Pepperidge Farm Gingerman Cookies! Can we get them?
Me: Sweet Jesus! Yes! But that is the only other thing off our list. That is it.
Scene: Me trying to select the least disgusting looking ground beef.
Kid: What’s THAT?
Kid: Where does it come from?
Kid: What do you mean?
Me: It ground up cow meat. They raise the cow, kill the cow, grind up the meat, and we eat it.
Kid: (pale, slightly green, weak in the knees) Are you kidding?
Me: No. Sorry.
Kid: I don’t want that. Let’s get chicken instead.
Me: Do you know where chicken comes from?
Me: It comes from chickens.
Me: Yes. They raise the chickens, kill the chickens, cut it up into pieces, and we eat it.
Kid: I want to leave. Can we just get hot dogs.
Me: (ooh, this is so fun!) Do you want to know where hot dogs come from?
And hour and a half later
Scene: At the checkout, loading a cart full of random crap onto the belt
1 gallon of Chocolate milk
a large bag of Halloween candy
Ice Cream (it was on sale)
The aforementioned cookies and cereal
1 dog toy (wait…what? We don’t have a dog. Fling toy to the side)
Fruit Roll-ups (cue the cavities)
Pudding (This will be gone in about 3 seconds once I get home)
Doritos, Fritos, Cheetos (basically the whole -ito family is being represented in my cart)
Why don’t they serve alcohol at this store?
Kid: Can I get a candy bar? You know, as a prize for being so good? Please?
Me: (beaten and broken down, a shell of my former self) No, yes, I don’t care, whatever. Get me one too.
Pay the cashier practically an entire week’s salary, murmur something about seeing them again in two days, drag my sorry ass to the car. Practically cry when I realize that I now have to fit all the stuff, plus the kids, into the car. Practically cry when I realize that I then have to get all the stuff, plus the kids, out of the car when I get home. Practically cry when I realize that I have to put all the stuff away once I’ve unloaded it from the car.
And this is why I hate shopping. It’s like a slow, twice weekly, really expensive death.