Shopping needs doing.
I am home, all day with the Littlest One, and would very much like to distract myself from thinking about work and brilliant ideas, and avoid lying on the floor playing another round of Thomas the Tank Engine Unsplodes, which is essentially me spending ages and much brain power reconfiguring and rebuilding the wooden train track I did only days before, to then witness it be driven on by trains, then hit by a volcano/earthquake/bomb so that it “unsplodes” (which I think is actually “explodes”) and smashed into a complete mess.
Which I then get to rebuild at another time.
Grocery shopping. therefore, seems like the most suitable way to distract and avoid.
Off we go. A park right next to the trolley bay is available, and I take it. This offers a safe place for Chippie to stand and be “helpful” whilst I’m unloading the trolley, post shopping, into the car, and means I can strap him in and return the trolley without the whole “you are a terrible mother, you locked your child in the car!’ scenario happening.
I will give my children credit for one thing; they are mostly very well behaved when grocery shopping. Oh, they have tried the “I want lollies” tantrum and were rewarded, on more than one occasion, with a “huh, so … that tantrum working for ya?” as I wandered off and left them there, not getting what they wanted.
They are helpful, behaved and cooperative (mostly – they are not angels, by any means).
I will also admit to a bit of a smug, Lleyton Hewitt style “YES!” when Chippie grabs a pear or an apple or a banana and asks if he can have one as we’re finishing up.
Today, however, he opted to sit in the trolley’s toddler seat. This after a bit of being a ‘truck’ and pushing the trolley, whilst I was the engine and walked in front of the trolley, dragging it behind me, and smashing my Achilles tendon every third step.
It also provided much amusement, and the almost calling of the Men In White Coats, as Chippie, being four years of age and of appropriate height for his age, was mostly obscured. He was yelling random things about trains at me, to which I replied, causing nearby shoppers to cast a range of facial expressions in my direction and give me a wide berth on the off chance some of my Crazy Lady Talking Random Shit To Herself rubbed off on them.
Thus it is that he is seated in his trolley-throne, stuffing the thingy on the chain that is supposed to enable you to redeem your trolley-hire-dollar down the front of my shirt, because I cannot possibly push the trolley unless I am properly “coupled” to it. The cold metal settles itself comfortably between my ample breasts, I squeal, and request he please stop doing it.
He fashions his “I’m getting very cross wif you” expression onto his face and I await his standard remark.
“Mum,” he says, gritting his teeth, scrunching his nose, drawing his eyebrows together and frowning.
“I’m starting to fart!” he says.
So incensed is he by my obstructive and unco-operative behaviour, his voice has risen considerably and patrons in aisle three can hear him.
I respond as sensibly as one can under such circumstances, and do a really loud snort-laugh.
We checkout, we load the car, the entire shopping population appear incapable of returning trolleys to the trolley bay in some kind of fashion that enable us to redeem our dollar, and we are forced to return ours to another bay, across the car park. Chippie insists on taking a stray trolley along as well, but we can only do so in some kind of very long train fashion.
Somehow, we make our way across the carpark and back again, not dissimilar to the way elephants wander around, hooked up to each other, only with trolleys, not elephants, obviously, without damaging any cars or other shoppers in the process.
We make it home at the same time as Grumpy Pants.
Chippie wants to watch a DVD.
Grumpy inserts the wrong one.
Chippie has a screaming tantrum about this.
I pick him up, place him on his bed and explain, between his ear-shattering screams, that he can come out when he can learn to speak nicely and use manners.
I’m not sure he understands terribly well as the conversation is a little like: You c-SCREAM-can st-SCREAM-stay here un-SCREAM-til-SCREAMSCREAMSCREAM-until-SCREAM-fine whatever, staytheretillyoustop!
And I leave.
“Daddy *sob* Daddyyy *sob* Dadeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!” he calls, angling for some sympathy and someone nice.
Daddy goes in and makes attempts to calm him.
“Mummy! *sob* Mummmeeeee *sob* MUUUUMMMMEEEEEEEE!”
Hrm. I am starting to think that the fart he was starting to do earlier never escaped and it found its way into Chippie’s bloodstream and has lodged itself in his brain.
It is the only logical explanation I can think of when it comes to four-year-old-behaviour.