Why I Dread Walmart

OR "LOOK! MOMMY CAN BREATH FIRE!"

This weekend was typical. Let me give ya the run down of a typical Saturday...

First, we have a “special” breakfast. Special for the kids because it’s full of sugar. Special for me because I don’t have to argue with anyone to eat it.

Then it’s off to Walmart. The kids are in tow, so I mentally make a note of the 5 things I must have and remind myself again that anything else is totally optional depending on how long I can last without becoming that screaming, red-faced, fire-breathing, “Come Here Right Now!!!!” mom. I have my pre-shopping pep talk with the kids where we review the three rules that haven’t changed in the last six years:

1. No Touchy Touchy
2. No Running
3. Stay Close to Mommy

Each child dutifully repeats these to me and I am lulled into a false sense of peace by their big eyes and reassuring smiles. Enough false peace to get out of the van and go in. Then I tell them, “OK guys, we need milk. Who can show me where the milk is?” Before I even finish my question, the kids are touching, running, and nowhere near me.

I begin chasing them down and grab items as I pass them in my pursuit. If you’ve ever seen old episodes of the game show where shoppers get a 1-minute shopping spree in the grocery store then you’ve got the idea of what this looks like. I kiss the baby’s head every two seconds to make sure she’s still in the basket and to thank her for not being old enough yet to add to the madness. I touch the back wall of the store wondering if I’m shopping or running suicides. Running suicides I decide.

My oldest is in competition with the other two to see who can do the most cartwheels down the aisle and takes out a full display of soup cans and an old lady in his effort. Humiliated, I apologize, but have to keep moving to catch him, which is lucky because these old southern ladies have some fight in them.

Someone pats my hand and says to me for the ninth time this morning, "You sure do have your hands full. Bless your heart." Which, translated in southern, means get your children out of here... now!

I herd my offspring to the checkout counter and then silently begin to pray that the person in front of me will go faster. Not for my sake. For theirs. They have no idea what 8 curious little hands will do to their groceries. I wonder if the mom in front of me has gum in her purse, because if she does, my daughter who shall remain nameless, will pick pocket that junk in 2 seconds flat.

Finally, I face the cashier who glances at my shirt, which somehow has multiple stains on it although it was clean two hours ago, sees my red, fire-breathing face, and silently sums me up in her mind. She tries to move quickly and I try to reassure her (as the children totally dismantle the strategically placed, child-height display right next to the cash register), but we both know she wants me out of there as badly as I want to be gone. Finally, we make it to the safety of our van again.

This stands in bold contrast to some of the fun times I've had this summer, but I know someday I'll look back on these "typical" weekends and laugh. And the moment the kids get old enough to walk through the store calmly, I'll be blogging about how sweet their baby days were.

Wishing you the magic of enjoying the moment.