Wednesday, 2 February 2011

I commence ‘heavy-load-pissed-off-mother’ shuffle.


Ok, so my kids are not Prada'd up ever (what child except the Beckham’s ever are? I hear you all cry), but to my mind, as long as they are clean (enough) and trousers are neither trailing on the floor behind them, nor riding half way up their shins either, then I’m fine with that. There’s plenty of time for them to worry about what they are wearing and what they look like to be done in the future, so why bother too early? This is my take, I realise everyone has their own stance. This is why I sat wondering today, after having been given the third sack of clothes for my girls from an ‘I’m being ever so kind, but really, you should take the hint’ faced mummy this morning (although mornings are not my preferred time of day, Alex often mutters things like 'fish-wife, dreadful in the' and such like at me in the mornings, so she was probably just being nice to give her the benefit of the doubt). I keep being given bloody kids’ clothes. Not that I mind, it’s great, saves a fortune, they go through clothes like baboons go through bananas (do they like bananas, baboons? Or is it restricted to the every day monkey tastes?). Anyway, they go through them fast. Faster than I can cry ‘I’ve got big forearms” ok, ok, I’ll stop now.

So, clothes, I must have been looking like a confused breast-fed baby in a topless bar, because the mummy said to me that I could chuck them if I didn’t want them, with that I took the bag saying, oh no, not at all, and thank you very much. And fleeing to the nearest car that looked like mine and tried to get in. I must have been in luck, as I actually managed to enter the correct vehicle. Without trying the lock several times, cursing (that ventriloquist swearing, that no one can properly hear, and you get to say what you want only silently (it’s brilliant, you should try it)…or is that maybe just me??!) Then kicking the car out of sheer unadulterated frustration, the fish wife inside has really and truly reared it’s ugly head, and you find yourself realising that the kids have been pointing to our car for the last five minutes, the 5 minutes you have been randomly abusing some one else’s car for (this, shamefully, is a true story). Not grateful to the 4 kids in trolley, I commence ‘heavy-load-pissed-off-mother’ shuffle. I can actually fit my thumb and little finger touching, around my wrist they are so breakable, and puny and weak so try desperately, not to snap one of my wrists as I push them downhill- now you’d think down hill would be the more preferable slant for pushing a shopping trolley full of small children and shopping…but you’d be wrong. Very, very wrong. The trolley gaily slips off, slightly a kilt, and threatens to hurtle down car park and knock old lady pulling one of those old lady shopping pulley things, behind her (and whilst I'm on this point, why are they always tartan too?). In my struggle to control the trolley load, my wrist actually snaps clean in half. Ok so I totally made that bit up. But the strain is phantasmical (did I just make that word up? Dictionary has red underlined it…I shall go check out it’s spelling equivalents…), after consulting the  'word dictionary’, it does not recognise this word in any capacity, so I have decided to stick with my new made up word…here’s me going with it, the phantasmical strain of the trolley  is nearly enough to break me. Food shopping trips usually are, with the kids in the aisles, you practising your sheep dog skills, as it is like trying to herd wildebeest with a tea spoon. This is why they end up in the trolley-note to self-must think up of new punishment for kids who wander off…thus the strain of the trolley, the reduction of space for putting shopping goods in, and the squished EVERYTHING that you scrape out the bottom of the trolley from under kids’ ‘been punished for wandering off and had to stay in the trolley’ feet on arriving at the till. Whereupon you feel always obliged to apologise for the state of every food item that the till person *beeps* (hey do you think it is always swearing, the till? It’s actually going ‘oh for f**k’s sake, f**k me I’m bored, why the f**k are you buying that?’ when all we hear is ‘beep, beep, beep, beep, beep’ bit of a random thought there, but you never know, or maybe you’re pretty sure that you do know…), through the till, endlessly and painstakingly re-bagging the mangled goods.

This is my shopping world, this is why I HATE food shopping, this is why I want a goat, Alex, and some more chickens, a cow, or two, some sheep, pigs…oh, yeah, and a donkey…!!!

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