Don't Buggy Me

I remember the first time I ventured to the grocery store - alone - with my first baby. We were cooking hamburgers at a friend's house, and I had to get the lettuce, onions, ketchup, etc.

I was scared sh*tless.

My daughter was only a couple of weeks old, and I don't think I had been out in public alone with her even one time before, much less in a venue as wrought with humanity and peril as a grocery store. In the past (i.e., the one time before this outing when we both went to the grocery store with the baby), Jim had placed her carrier in the buggy, facing him, and pushed it while I did the tossing in of the groceries. You know the whole routine. But this time... I had to do it BY MYSELF.

Obviously, we all lived, but ever since then I have never enjoyed taking ANYONE to the damn grocery store with me at all.

I see cute moms in there all the time, with their 'little helpers' pushing their own little buggies, giving lessons on counting and colors as they shop.

"How many BANANAS do you see, Riley? FOUR! Very good! And what COLOR are they? Uh, that's close (oh, God, something's wrong with him)..."

Oh, those little buggies... the dreaded, shin-busting, rack-wrecking, Blade-Runner carts of destruction.

If you're one of those cute moms who likes them, then stop here.

Because I flippin' HATE the bastards.

It's not that I even have to personally deal with them myself, because I generally forbid them, especially if they bear the tall, metal pole capped with a flag announcing 'Shopper In Training'. Please. Think of the weight imbalance.

It's the other little speed junkies who go tearing through Piggly Wiggly like Days of Thunder - or is that too dated a reference? Fast and Furious? Speed Racer? Whatever. These kids are completely impulsive, erratic, and they scare the hell out of me when I see them.

Fortunately, I can usually hear them coming, because they make spitting 'engine'-like sounds heard ailses away, accompanied by falling soup cans and some soft-spoken mom saying,

"Riley, come back. Come back, Riley. Riley? Riley? (Oh, God, something's wrong with him.)"

Thanks to these heads-up warnings, I can safely climb onto the meat counter until Riley dervishes his way into a nearby freezer.

But if those little buggies weren't bad enough, there's - you know it already - The Car.

Yes, THE CAR. The multi-passenger, grease-and-smudge stained, bacteria-laden, impossible-to-steer, hard plastic, freakin' CAR.

I do let my kids take The Car if they request it, because unlike the buggies at least I can control it, but half the time the damn thing is already servicing some other kid who's not even in it but instead walking ten feet behind his mother ("Riley? Where are you? Riley? (oh, God...)"). So we get to hear about The Car for most of the shopping trip, and when we actually see it in use by Another, my four-year-old will stop and point a finger at the cruel usurper.

"HE'S got The Car!!!!!! Nnnnooooooo!!!!"

My youngest, the only one at this point who cares about The Car, doesn't even like to sit in the car part, which in my mind defeats the purpose of taking The Car for a spin.

Why does she do this? Who the hell knows? But we take The Car out of its holding pen, I stick her into the front part where she would be in any shopping cart (except she's waaaaay too big for it), and I attempt to navigate it through the store without bumping into the Jazzy crew. It's like driving a semi when you're used to a scooter.

Not only that, but The Car is generally quite disgusting. Remains of indulged children are smeared all over the handle and seat area, with cellophane wrappers, wax paper, and crumbs in the basket. I've been on seats in the vomitous Tilt-a-Whirl at the State Fair that were more appetizing.

Apparently, my daughter agrees, because at some point, she usually tries to stand up in the front part and climb Dukes of Hazzard-style onto the top of the car part.

"Wheeee!!!" she says, hanging onto the hood like MacGyver.

So I have to stop in the middle of the paper products aisle and grab her down, all while managing her punches and screaming protests.

"Riley? See that girl over there? She's not listening to her mommy, is she? What should that little girl do instead? Uh, no, that would be dangerous. And a felony (oh, God I KNOW something's not right...)."

So, turns out The Car is no better than the little buggies, maybe even worse.

The solution to these grocery store woes? I try to manage my time so that I can go by myself. But there are days when such a feat is unavoidable. In such cases, I grin, bear it, take The Car, and be sure to throw a good bottle of red into the basket for when I get home.

And besides, Riley's usually there anyway, which always makes me feel a little better.