Mag article me and S 23 months 2

Like butter wouldn’t melt …

 

WE’VE all been there – a dull Wednesday afternoon, you open the fridge and half heartedly poke around hoping to find something to eat for that evening’s dinner.

There is nothing.

Unless mouldy tomatoes served on a bed of cardboard and gone off milk is suddenly a ‘thing’. And frankly, I wouldn’t put anything past the hipsters.

So anyway, you make the decision to go to the supermarket even though you’re on your own with the kid and even utter the immortal words ‘sure how hard could it be?’

Brimming with determination you get your coat and shoes on, make sure you have your keys and then Ninja tackle the two-year-old to the floor while shoving his arms into his coat and ripping the velcro on his shoes open with your teeth.

“We nare gooooinnng *pant* to the shhhooo *ouch* ppps. Put yer *yelp* cooaat nnnnnnn,” you bellow restraining the child like you learnt in juvie a book.

Both suitably attired you decide to bring the buggy in case the child gets tired so he can climb aboard and slumber peacefully while you browse.

*rolls eyes at own naivety*

It takes 15 minutes to get out the door as you negotiate how many toys the child is allowed to bring with him. You finally settle on 17, following an all out shrieking mickey fit on his part. And, let’s be honest, on yours.

Red faced and sweating you make it into the supermarket and for the first five minutes you glide serenely up and down the aisle.

‘This isn’t so bad,’ you think to yourself, as the child occupies himself eating the snack you have cleverly packed before you left the house.

You throw a few items into your basket and then, stupidly, make eye contact with your toddler. Big mistake. Huge.

The child suddenly realises that he may not be the centre of your attention and starts making attempts to escape.

Down!

Out!

Down and play!

His demands reach ear splitting level so you eventually release him from the instrument of torture buggy and tell him to hold on to your hand as you walk along.

Yeah.

That happens.

Not.

Not at ALL.

First chance he gets, he’s doing his Ronnie Delaney impression, legging it into the fruit and veg section and instantly disappearing behind a display of melons.

Fuck.

Where the fuck is he?

You finally find him playing with a kumquat which he will not relinquish under any circumstances. You remind him of all the lovely toys you brought with you, 17 in all, but he is adamant. He despises those toys. He wants this kumquat. You will buy it for him and let him keep it and you will like it.

You don’t even know what a kumquat is. You vaguely think it might taste like chicken.

 

Bastard kumquats

Bastard kumquats

Exhausted you try to continue with your shopping, holding tightly onto the child with one hand, while manoeuvering the buggy and the basket with the other.

You end up having to headbutt your groceries off the shelf into your basket as it’s the only appendage you have free.

Concussed, you make your way to the till and in your confused state you decide to check out using the self service tills.

Like a fucking gobshite.

Unexpected item in bagging area.

Please wait for assistance.

Unexpected item in bagging area.

Please take your items.

Unexpected item in bagging area.

Please take your items.

PLEASE TAKE YOUR ITEMS.

All the while you’re frantically trying to get the machine to take your crumpled twenty, while attempting to stop the toddler from scaling the tower of baskets.

Defeated, you stumble home, bowed and bloodied with a shrieking toddler triumphantly holding a kumquat attached to your face. And naturally, when you get home you realise you left your bag of shopping in the supermarket.

You eat mouldy tomatoes for dinner. Followed by fucking kumquat.

And you learn a valuable lesson. The only way to bring a toddler shopping with you is to leave him at home with his other parent or a grandmother. Or, you know, the postman, anyone at all once you don’t have to endure shopping with a toddler.

It’s the only way. Trust me.

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