As soon as my eyes popped open this morning, one idea dominated my thoughts - must grocery shop.
Ugh.
Grocery shopping sounds easy. It was to me too once upon a time. But then I had children - three to be exact. Plus Wal-Mart and its clever displays of bright "stuff" underminds any plans of a quick shopping trip. So after three cups of coffee, dressing myself and children, I was off to conquer the dreaded weekly chore.
Once there, I bribed children to stay safely seated in the cart with promises of any kind of candy they want IF they behave. Kids strapped, momma armed with concise, bargain busting list and we're off! Goes smoothly for the most part. Then something changes. The wind? A slight shift of the earth's axis? Who knows?
Oldest starts hooting like an owl, which prompts girls to howl. Youngest spits up EVERYWHERE. Nice juicy spit-up speckled with Goldfish. Wipes under all the groceries. Race to check-out lane. Kids pick out push-up suckers ... then misbehave. (Any other mother might quickly reposses the rewards - not me. ) Unbuckle youngest so I can clean spit-up. Forgot to buckle youngest. She climbs out reaching for the register and I catch her as she tries to step out of the buggy. And, oh yes, she's only a year old. Hold youngest while piling bagged groceries back into buggy. Oldest and middle - five and three respectively - are holding cork board and poster boards respectively. Then they start swinging cork and poster boards almost harming at least three elderly people.
Groceries and goodies bagged. Youngest on my left hip, pushing buggy with right side of my body, oldest and middle walking on each side. Youngest slipping. Still pushing. Oldest and middle decide to be a team and carry cork and poster boards down the middle of the parking lot lane causing slight traffic jam. Just had to make the chore chart, I think. Still pushing.
Get to car. Buckle youngest in car seat. See man in little red truck backing up. Look to make sure other two children are alive.
Little red truck man yelled, "I think you forgot your milk."
"What?" I asked.
"Your milk," he said pointing toward another older man holding up a gallon of milk like a torch. He looked familiar. I think he was one of the men the oldest almost hit with the cork board.
Little red truck man drives away after a little "see what I mean" wave.
Other man with milk walks up to me, hands me the milk and said, "You know ... you could of bought that at Food City for a $1.98. What did you pay for that? $3 or more?"
"You know, I hate to admit it, but I don't even know."
"That's a shame," he said shaking his head and walking off.
"Well ... um ... sorry. But thanks for bringing me my overpriced milk."
Is it wrong to tackle an old man who just delivered your milk?
