Tesco Trauma

I am completely traumatised.  Completely and utterly traumatised.  A mere shadow of my former self.  I’ll try to say this without sobbing uncontrollably: this afternoon I’ve been food shopping with my husband and three tired children.

Oh my sweet Jesus, I can barely describe the carnage that took place.

We were the parents that people look on with a mixture of pity and smugness that it’s not their kids tear-assing round causing, as the Fat Controller would say, ‘confusion and delay’.  I’ll try to put it into words.  Bear with me.  They may not be coherent and if this was the written word there would be smudges on the page where I have slumped my head in defeat and probably sloshed a bit of wine.

It went like this:

Aisle 1: J: ‘Mum, can we have a toy?’  ‘No and don’t keep asking for stuff all the way round.’  J: ‘I need some new trainers.’ ‘I know you do but we’re not getting them from Tesco.’ J: ‘Should we just look anyway?’ ‘No.’

(Z, aka Houdini, meanwhile has legged it): ‘Z, don’t run off.’  Z (feigning innocence): ‘I’m not!’

(Making the most of the distraction M, a kleptomaniac in the making, is picking up everything in sight): ‘M! Put it back. ‘ M: ‘I just want to carry it.’ ‘DON’T open the packet.’ M: ‘I’m not.’  ‘M, what are you doing?! I said don’t open the packet!’ M: ‘I was just looking at it.’ ‘You look with your eyes, not with your hands.’  (It was inevitable; I’ve turned into my Mum.)

Aisle 3: J: ‘Mum, I’m thirsty.’ ‘I’ll get you a drink in a minute.’ J: ‘But I’m REALLY thirsty.’ ‘You’ll have to wait.’ M: ‘I’m thirsty too, Mum.’ Z: ‘Duce peez, Mummy?’ ‘Yes, we’ll get one on the drinks aisle.’ Z: ‘Peez, Mummy.’ ‘IN A MINUTE!’ (Cue wobbling lip).  ‘Right, wait here with Daddy and I’ll get you a drink.’ J: ‘I want to come with you.’ ‘Just wait here!’

(Runs and gets drinks from the chiller cabinet. Distributes them and opens them).  J: ‘Mum, we haven’t paid for these yet.’ ‘It’s OK, we’ll put the bottles back in the trolley after so they can still be scanned.’ J: ‘Is it not stealing?’ ‘No, because we’re going to pay for them.’ M: ‘I’m holding mine.’ (Through gritted teeth): ‘Just put it in the trolley.’

Aisle 7: Z: ‘Tuddle, Mummy?’ ‘I’m not carrying you all the way around Tesco.’ Z: ‘Peez, Mummy.’ ‘No, walk like a big boy.’ (Z crosses arms, sticks out tummy and bottom lip and studiously stares at his feet.): ‘No.’  We continue to walk away which prompts Z to lie on the floor face down and scream at the top of his lungs.  I continue to walk, keeping him in sight.  Eventually he gets up and follows but clings to my leg, hindering not only the selecting of items from shelves but also walking.

Aisle 12: Z: ‘Carry, Mummy?’ ‘No, Z, you’re too heavy, you’ll have to walk.’ Z: ‘Carry, Mummy!’ ‘No.’ (A repeat of aisle 7, with people looking on in amusement.  Starting to laugh hysterically, I go to retrieve him.  Meanwhile, J and M are playing a ‘game’ of running up and down the aisles shouting and swinging each other around.  As always, J gets over-zealous and M ends up on the floor and starts to cry. We rub knees and attempt to continue).

Aisle 17: ‘Z, I am NOT carrying you.’ (Repeat of aisle 7 and 12).  With twitching eye: ‘Right, who’s going to help me put stuff in the trolley?’ (I remember reading somewhere that it’s ‘good parenting’ or some crap like that to get kids involved and focus their energy in a positive way.)  N.B. It doesn’t work with tired children: instead there are arguments over whose turn it is, wrestling of items from each other’s grasp and picking up unnecessary items to hurl unceremoniously on top of various perishables.

Aisle 21: Quick recce of the trolley reveals that hubby and I have been so distracted that we’ve been putting double of everything in, not knowing the other had already got it.  We briefly contemplate putting it back but consider our broken will and shattered nerves and decide against it.

Aisle 24: The wine aisle. Thank f*** for that.

Checkout: J: ‘Can I help you pack, Mum?’ (Under my breath) ‘Crap, do you have to?’ (Out loud) ‘Yes, Sweetheart, of course you can.’ (J starts to squash everything he can get hold of into the nearest bag.)  ‘No J, you can’t put disinfectant spray with the bread.’  ‘No, don’t put the tins on top of the eggs.’ ‘J, please, you’re shaking up the bottles.’ J: ‘But I’m just trying to help, Mum.’ (Deep breath) ‘I know you are, Sweetheart, I know.’

Hubby and I pause to wonder if it would be frowned upon to open the wine and swig from it then and there on the spot like we had with the soft drinks.

What? We were going to make sure they scanned the bottle 😉