I Hate Shopping, Part II

I hate to shop, remember?  I especially am not fond of grocery shopping, because it usually takes me forever to get out of there because I can't find anything quickly and I have to wait in the checkout line for hours.  But we had to go today.  So I thought Larry and I could do it together, we'd take Zane and be in and out of Walmart quickly.  This is how far my delusions created to survive shopping trips have taken me. 

We put the harness we got for Zane on him before we let him out of the car.  It's actually a leash, to be blunt, but the boy is at least three times as fast as we are and this at least evens things up a bit.  We put Zane down outside the car, and...he wants to be carried.  Larry carries him to the entrance and we put him in the seat in the cart.  Larry complains about his hip bothering him.  I say nothing--I usually hurt all over, but if I say anything then I'm accused of being a "one-upper".  

Zane is like most kids--if it's shiny and he sees it, he wants it.  And he knows that "please" is the magic word that gets you all sorts of prizes.  So he starts in with "Peez, daddy, peez" and "Peez, mama, peez" as soon as he sees a toy he wants.  He wants them all, or at least, everything that is on the aisle we have to pass to get to the garden center.  I am happy that he seems to be stringing words together to communicate. 

We almost always lose Larry if we pass too close to the electronics section of any store, and today is no exception.  One second he was there, the next he wasn't.  I kept going on to the food section, with a brief stop in the books cut short by Zane's reaching out of the cart to pull books off the shelves.  I hurried to the dairy to begin grabbing what we needed.  Zane also began grabbing whatever he could and throwing it either on the floor or in the cart.  Then, when I told him no, he started to grab what was in the cart and throw that stuff on the floor, even stuff I know that he likes.  I tried to run interference while gathering as many supplies as I could, singing to him, pointing stuff out and otherwise trying to distract my son, while keeping as many vulnerable groceries out of his reach.  I  I repeatedly texted Larry to hurry up, because it was only a matter of time before something not meant to be thrown, like a jar of spaghetti sauce, ended up all over Aisle 5.

Finally Larry showed up, and I gave Zane to him.  Let him run out some energy, I said.  He'll get it out of his system, I said.  That was crazy talk.  Off Zane went, pulling Larry along for the ride.  I blew out a brief sigh of relief, glad that I could now concentrate on groceries.  I got about ten feet down the cereal aisle when I heard it.  I pretend I didn't, hoping I'm mistaken.  I'm not.  My son, my beautiful son, is running up and down the aisles at Walmart, yelling at the top of his apparently healthy lungs.  He is gloriously happy, having a great time, dragging his father behind him.  People are staring.  I pass a teenage girl with one of those babies they use to teach about the responsibilities of parenthood.  I don't think she understood why I was giggling. 

Unfortunately, Daddy gets tired and can't keep up with Zane, so back in the cart he goes.  At least that is what Larry thinks.  In the ensuing battle of wills, Zane is the clear winner.  Larry finally just hands him to me. I carry Zane while we find a checkout line that doesn't have thirty people waiting in it.  (Wtf is up with that, anyway, Walmart?  You should have the capacity to open up every single checkout within five minutes if needed--and it was needed today! It's poor business, not that you care.)   Zane doesn't want me to carry him.  I put him back in the cart. He doesn't like it, and he's crying, but oh well.  We get to the check out, but we have to wait.  And wait. And wait.  Zane doesn't do waiting.  He starts trying to throw things out of the cart again.  I get him out of the cart and hold him for an eternity.  I put him down so I can do the transactions to complete the check out. He lays down on the floor.  I refuse to look.  The people in line behind us are glaring, probably because we are horrible parents and let our poor child just lie on the floor like that.  Larry turns around from putting the bags of groceries into the cart and sees Zane and makes some sort of comment like "Why are you letting him play in the dirt on the floor of Walmart?"

So I punched him in the face.  No, not really.  I would never actually do anything like that.  But I seriously thought about it, because I was that frustrated.  And I made a mental note to not bring Zane or Larry next time I have to go grocery shopping.