Did I Really Just Try to Shop with TSMs in Tow??? A Rant

It would appear that there are no depths to the foolishness I engage in.  I just got back from a shopping trip with my three youngest children.  A shopping trip which, I should add, was abruptly cut short due to the extreme squirreliness and misbehavior of said children.  Here’s how it went:

As I was waiting in the parking lot to pick up TSM3 from preschool, I thought to myself, “Hey we could get some errands done while we’re already out.”  I had a list of the places I wanted to hit organized with little bullet points underneath each store name detailing what needed to be returned, acquired, looked at, or otherwise done.  My list was a thing of beauty, indeed.  After getting TSM3 in the car, I realized that he and the other two TSMs with me were hungry.  Plus, I really needed to use the bathroom.  (It’s amazing how important that becomes when you’re drinking a gallon of water a day.  But I digress…)  So we went home first.

We had a super-quick lunch, what with TSM4 refusing to drink his milk, TSM3 refusing to eat his carrot and TSM2 refusing to eat his sandwich.  Now you might think that I should have been clued in by all the meal-time angst that shopping afterward was a BAD IDEA.  But you’re not accounting for my clue-free, density factor.  Or maybe it’s optimism.  Whatever.  Today I am apparently thick in the brain, and dense enough I’m beginning to suspect that light bends around my head.  Clues may be right in front of the sucking black hole of my mind, but they are just crushed by the gravitational forces and destroyed.

Anyway, we set out for stop number 1: the fabric store.  I am far behind in making the baby blankets I like to give when friends have babies so picking up a few yards of some cute flannel prints is important and usually not too hard.  I thought (?) it would be fun for TSM2 and TSM3 to have their own little carts to push around — you know give them some way to participate in the shopping.  Well, they can’t steer.  No.  They can steer, they just have the judgment of a 5 year-old and a 3 year-old.  They did not follow quietly behind me; they careened off each other’s carts, off displays, off innocent bystanders.  I shudder just thinking about it.

We finally made it to the (relatively) safe confines of the “cozy flannel” section where I began to peruse the selection.  Where are those cute little rocket and alien prints when you want them, anyway?  TSM3 “helped” by grabbing all sorts of random bolts of fabric off the shelves.  “Is this good?  I like this one.  Is this good?”  TSM2 wandered off to the next aisle in search of the fabric he wanted for himself.  (Did I mention that he knew I wasn’t planning to make a blanket for him this time?)  He came back with wool felt and shiny satin.  Lovely.  TSM4 was busily trying to fling himself from my shopping cart.  Naturally, I got flustered and tried to herd my little flock and their shopping carts along the flannel aisle which suddenly became very narrow.  Probably another side effect of the black hole in my brain…

TSM2 was offended at not being allowed to purchase his fabrics and being treated like a child.  “Mom, you’re a meany!  You never let me do anything I want to do!”  Desperately attempting to maintain my composure, I retreated to my very favorite place — sarcasm.  Cool as can be, I said, “Yes, honey.  I’m doing it on purpose to make your life miserable.”  All of a sudden, a lady in an adjacent aisle started laughing.  Oh, great.  Witnesses!  It turned out that she has two teenage daughters who she can now embarrass with much glee, so at least I can hope for payback in the future.

After more wrangling, I chose the fabrics I wanted and we took them to the cutting station.  The clerk asked how much I wanted of each of the bolts I placed on the counter.  Immediately, TSM3 took advantage of my distraction and disassembled one of the end-cap displays — kits for making your own something-or-other.  One of the management team came over to ask if he could help TSM3 put it back together.  He was pretty nice about the whole thing.  TSM2 had been hanging on the side of his cart this whole time, held in place by the gravitational pull of my head.  But when I turned my head back to the cutting table to answer a question from the clerk, his cart fell over right on top of him.  Crash!!!  Another customer and I righted the cart just as a different manager (possibly the General Manager) came up to see if TSM2 was okay.  He was fine, of course, being the most accident prone of my offspring and therefore used to getting knocked about.  But as soon as manager-boy realized that, his expression went from “worried-about-a-law-suit” to get-your-hooligans-the-$%#@^!-out-of-my-store.

Once the cutting was done, we started to head to the front to check out.  But then I realized I needed some thread to go with all these cute fabrics.  As we’re heading to the thread, I see a squadron of navy uniformed employees of a national inventory company.  Oh joy.  Not only have I been shopping with 3 over-stimulated TSMs, but we’re doing it on inventory day!  All my kids are trying to grab the thread they like, while I’m trying to keep them from doing just that and get the stuff I actually need at the same time.  Seriously, I was poetry in motion – pirouetting from one child to the next while grabbing spools that coordinated with the fabrics I had selected.  The only thing that would have made it better is prehensile toes!  Eventually, we scoot out of the thread area narrowly missing injuring the teams of inventory professionals.  TSM2 was driving erratically, TSM3 was driving backward and TSM4 was still trying to throw himself overboard. 

Getting to the check out required running the gauntlet of candy, toys and other chatchkes* that are the bane of every mother’s existence.  After several rousing choruses of “You never let me get anything!” and “Mommy’s a meany!” we finally got to the check out counter.  As I threw everything at the cashier, TSMs 2 and 3 ran out the front doors, and TSM4 tried (yet again) to cause himself severe bodily harm.  The cashier informed me that two had run out the door, as if I hadn’t realized that.  I told her that I needed to stay with TSM4 so he wouldn’t heave himself out of the cart.  She stood there and offered to hold the baby for me, if I needed.  That was really sweet, I know, but all I could think was, “Stop talking to me and wasting time.  Just scan what you need to scan and swipe my card so I can get the heck out of here!!!” 

I paid for everything and headed for the front door in search of my two AWOL children.  As soon as I emerged from the store, they accosted me with the sidewalk merchandise on display.  “We need pumpkins for Halloween!  And baskets!  I want to get them for my brother’s birthday!”  (Which is in the dead of winter, mind you.)  Of course I had had enough by this point and was desperate to get them home and in their rooms, so I made them put it all back.  They commenced another lusty chorus of “You never let me get anything!” and “Mommy’s a meany!”  I hustled the kids to the car and drove home running every yellow light I came to.  And here I sit, still ranting about this and wondering what on earth possessed my to shop with three kids who were already not behaving well.  Does anyone know how to get rid of a black hole?

 

* chatchke (pl. chatchkes):  Yiddish, n.  knick-knack; an inexpensive, but showy trinket. 
Because all English spellings are transliterations, you may also find it spelled in different ways: chachka, tschotchke, etc.

~ by quiregirl on September 4, 2008.