And runny grobbles for the children

I don’t want to blog about my supermarket misadventures – I don’t want to be that tedious. But if we’re going to be honest here, I have been driven bat shit crazy and I have to get this off my chest: My last half a dozen trips to the supermarket have been like a trip. A bad LSD trip from my long lost youth. Except this time the chocolate bars aren’t talking to me.

You know those contests where a person is given 60 seconds to race around and fill their trolley with as much random crap as they can throw in it? My shopping trips are like that, except I don’t get to win my groceries at the end. Nor do I end up with anything I actually want and/or need. I just get a small child who tries to climb the confectionery shelves at the checkout while I shove my random stuff onto the conveyor belt and pray I’ve slung together enough groceries to actually prepare at least one complete dinner for the week. Because Gods help me if I have to come back to this damned place again today.

supermarket panic attack

The terrorist here is Guy Smiley, who, at the darling age of two-in-three-months, is at this charming stage where he rebels against any kind of constraint. Car seat constraints are where the trouble begins, but that’s a halfway manageable problem. With enough perseverance and brute force on my part (gentle-applied brute force, I might add), he will eventually consent to being buckled into his seat. It’s the battle for the supermarket trolley’s toddler seat that I absolutely cannot win. Not even with chocolate bars. Talking or otherwise.

Being constrained to stay at my side once we enter the supermarket sparks insurgency. For approximately five seconds, Guy Smiley will pretend to hold my hand, until that exact moment when I think to myself “yay, he’s going to be placid toda – aaahhhfuckit!” And he’s off. Legging it at the first opportunity, as fast as his chubby lil legs can project him. Then as an added blow to my will to live, he’ll drop to a thrashing dead weight when I try to pick him up. It’s guerrilla warfare, and I’m throwing canned missiles into my trolley in the futile hope of being able to strike some kind of culinary taste-bomb once I get home.

But if Guy Smiley’s the terrorist, then The Lily Bug is the evil mastermind behind him

At the tender age of four-in-two-months, she has the boy trained in the field of Stealth Militiary Tactics. She’ll say “I’ll go get him mum!” and the next moment she’s hot on his heels, tugging at his hand and squealing “come on, let’s go this way!” The supermarket has become my children’s training ground for total anarchy.

As the Lad helpfully offered, “really Callie, your trips to the supermarket are pretty fucking pointless.” And the Lad would be right.

Though, I challenge him to do a better job when his son is rocketing through the store like a runaway pinball and the walls are closing in on him as he’s caught in the grip of what could be an acid flashback of ’93 but is most likely a really bad anxiety attack..

My dreams are still filled with the disapproving frowns of disapproving shoppers with their disapproving head shakes and their disapproving mutters of .. well… disapproval. Bastards.

Please, if you see a blue-haired lady dashing through Countdown in pursuit of two wee Che Guevara’s… Please throw some grocery staples into her trolley. She always forgets the sugar, flour or toilet paper, and it’s it’s been about two months since the bathroom last had a light bulb.