There are days when I question my own intelligence, and yesterday was one of them. Would a smart person take two young, overtired children to Wal-Mart at naptime. NO.
But I did. I broke my cardinal rule of never taking the children shopping, simply because I was desperate. Bee needed presents for two birthday parties this weekend, the cupboards were bare, DH was gone, and I had no idea what I was going to feed the kids for lunch. So, though it was against my better judgment, I loaded everybody up in the van and we headed out.
My first mistake was trying to return pop cans and unwanted merchandise. The stupid can machines at Wal-Mart only work about half the time, and I always get the machine that is one can away from being full. Then, I have to hunt down an employee who can empty the machine, while Cakes shrieks because she wants out of the cart, and Bee prances around singing opera, until my head feels like it will explode from the racket.
To make matters worse, the can room was so disgustingly dirty that my shoes actually stuck to the floor. When I was trying to strap the kids into one of those giant, heavy, 2-seater carts, one of my receipts fluttered out of my bag, landed in a sticky puddle of glop, and about 25 people trampled over it before I was able to rescue it. I smoothed it out as best I could, and approached the “Greeter” to check in my returns.
Can I just say that returning stuff at Wal-Mart has become a giant pain in the butt? Thanks to some return scam at Christmas time, they can’t just stick little pink tags on your returns anymore. Instead, they have to scan each item and print a price sticker for it. As is always my luck, the sweet little old lady who was manning the entry had just run out of stickers. I stood there for about 15 minutes, blocking the entry with my huge, unwieldy cart, while she attempted to insert another roll into the machine.
By the time I actually got my stuff returned, the kids were ready to revolt. They were tired. They were uncomfortable. They were hungry, thirsty, itchy…you name it. Up and down the aisles we went, making a cacophony of noises that could be heard all over the store.
In the pharmacy…
BEE: “She’s kicking me!”
ME: “Cakes! Stop that!”
BEE: “Her foot is on my side!”
ME: “Well, move it then!”
BEE: “I did, but she keeps putting it back!”
In the dairy aisle…
BEE: “Mommy, Cakesie farted!”
ME: “So what? You don’t have to announce it to the whole world!”
BEE: “But it stinks. Can we get fruit snacks?”
ME: “No”
BEE “Why not?”
ME: “Because they’ll rot your teeth.”
BEE: “What’s rot mean?”
ME: “NEVER MIND!”
In canned goods…
BEE: “MOM! Cakes took her shoe off!”
ME: “Oh great. Where is it?”
BEE: “I dunno. I think she dropped it in the cookie aisle.”
(Back to the cookie aisle to retrieve the shoe, which had been kicked under the vanilla wafers on the bottom shelf).
In produce…
CAKES: “AAAAAHHHH! Stuck! Stuck!”
ME: “What’s the matter now?!”
BEE: “I think she wants out.”
ME: “Well, she can’t get out!”
BEE: “Mommy, are you having a bad day?”
ME: “No, Mommy’s fine. But do you think you guys could be quiet for 5 minutes?”
BEE: “Okay.” (10 seconds of blissful silence, and then…..)
“Is it 5 minutes yet?”
By the time we got to the self-checkout, Cakes had fallen asleep in the cart, for which I was very, very thankful. But then the self-checkout computer (these machines also seem to hate me) started telling me repeatedly to “remove unexpected item in bagging area.” I was perplexed. There were no “unexpected items” in the bagging area. Finally, when I was so frustrated that I was having chest pains, I flagged down a cashier. “WHY does it keep saying this?” I implored desperately. The cashier glanced at the baggage carousel, where I had dutifully hung my reusable canvas bags, and said nonchalantly, “Oh, it’s just because of your bags.” She removed them, and the annoying message disappeared.
Apparently bags in the bagging area are “unexpected.” Silly me.
When we were finally ready to go home, Bee announced, (for the 3rd time),
“I have to go potty.”
I heaved a big sigh, and maneuvered my overflowing cart into the bathroom. While Bee was going about her business, I lifted Cakes out of her seat to check her diaper. Much to my dismay, I discovered that she had peed through her diaper, soaking her jeans, onesie, and even her socks, requiring a head-to-toe clothing change.
As I drove home, I felt ready to collapse from exhaustion. I was just thinking that I would never, ever take the kids shopping with me again, when Bee piped up from the back seat,
“Mommy, I love you.”
“I love you too Honey Bunny,” I replied.
“I really like when we have girls’ days. Can we do this again?”
I said yes.
