I went grocery shopping with all three kids. Everybody was off of school Monday, and we were out of eggs and milk, so I took them grocery shopping.
Could’ve watched a movie.
Could’ve taken them to an indoor trampoline park.
No. I took them grocery shopping. All three kids, two of them free-standing, not corralled to a cart. By myself. During the holidays, when people act about as friendly as a porcupine with hot sauce in his eye. When the aisles are filled with stocking stuffers and red foiled-covered candies and everything Frozen, just BEGGING for tiny bird voices to beg their parents for a treat before those tired parents finally break just to get thirty flipping seconds of peace. I took my three children under the age of six to the grocery store.
What’s even better is that I decided at 10:30 to go, but by the time I got them all herded together and in semi-appropriate clothing (Saoirse’s white socks with glitter-polka-dotted knock-off TOMS were her own doing), it was 11:30. You know how it works. By the time they were buckled in to their car seats, it was almost lunch time. And yet I took them grocery shopping. Which usually takes an hour, without three semi-famished children in tow.
And they were fine. Of course they were. My kids were fine. Because my kids are well-behaved. They are good, and sweet, and kind, and it’s meeeeeee that’s stressing out, me that’s making sure no one gets kidnapped or led down an aisle by a scary stranger with red foil-wrapped candy, me who wishes it wouldn’t make me look bad if I picked up a 6-pack of that holiday beer to drink with lunch.
Just me. The kids are all right.
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