Aisle Be Damned

Aisle Be Damned

My youngest son barrels through the back door brandishing an aluminum trash-can lid as a shield and a crude tin-foil sword. He's covered head to toe in what appears to be blood. The only thing saving me from calling emergency services is the overwhelming smell of ketchup wafting off him.

“Are we out of both ketchup and foil now, too?” I say.

The fridge is empty, we’re down to half a roll of toilet paper, and apparently now we have no ketchup or foil. This means I have no choice but to take my four- and five-year-old sons grocery shopping. As soon as we leave the house, it starts to rain.

Damn.

The store is packed, so we are relegated to a parking spot in section Z. I’m too soaked to concern myself with the bells going off in my head that this was a huge mistake as we approach the store entrance. My boys sprint in and out of the automatic doors at least a dozen times before I locate a cart with four functioning wheels.

As the spouse of a Marine, there are things I love about shopping at the military commissary. Nothing is taxed, they always have whatever you need, and then they do the entire checkout for you at the register, from loading the items onto the belt, scanning them, and bagging them with the impersonal efficiency of airport security. Who cares when you have a small team to care for you? The last time someone did things for me was when I gave birth. The very best part is I can run a tab and pay the bill once a month on payday. Did I mention they sell alcohol?

The worst part about the commissary is it is the size of a small country, and some marketing genius has supplied my children with miniature shopping carts. Because of previous near-death experiences involving these demonic vehicles, I limit them to one cart to share. They agree and take off, presumably for their first pit stop: the cereal aisle.

I savor the brief calm - no carts ramming my heels, no fear of anyone abducting them because there are military police at every exit. Besides, should someone take them, they’d be returned before I even noticed they were missing.

I contemplate dinner. My kids aren’t picky eaters - they hate everything equally except fast food, hot dogs, and mac and cheese. They’re foragers who snack on their own inventions: salted ice cubes, dry spaghetti, anything they find under couch cushions. After spending half a month’s salary on groceries, they’ll still fling open the fridge like parting the Red Sea and declare, “There’s nothing to eat.”

I decide on meatloaf, since the last time I made it, no one got sick. I could attempt something more ambitious; after all, I own a Julia Child cookbook heavier than the slabs Moses carried down the mountain. Oddly, it contains not one candy recipe.

Damn.

Before I reach the cereal aisle, my kids come careening around the corner on two wheels, carting a box of something neon-colored the size of a footlocker called Battletoads. The cereal itself is not pictured on the box - never a good sign. After a lengthy argument, during which I point out the untouched boxes of sugary cereal fossilizing in our pantry, they swear this time will be different. They promise to eat every bite, no matter what, or never ask for cereal again.

Too tired to argue, I relent as my oldest announces, “It’s about time you bought something we pick out.” And his evil sidekick adds, “Yeah, you never buy us anything we like.”

They’re off again toward what history tells me will be the ice-cream aisle - no need for my anger when revenge feels so much sweeter. I quietly add a massive box of bran flakes to my cart. Later, I will switch the contents of Battletoads with the tree bark. The looks on their faces at breakfast will be priceless.

Feeling brilliant, I even consider buying toilet paper that matches my bathroom. Maybe this trip won’t be a disaster after all. I move on to the next aisle. Halfway done.

That’s when I spot a father wheeling his fidgeting toddler down the aisle. He's muttering about shopping lists longer than War and Peace and complaining about people who don’t alphabetize by aisle. Then, to my sheer delight, he commits a fatal parenting error: he parks his cart next to a rack of brooms.

Before Dad can react, Junior grabs a broomstick and sweeps off an entire shelf of shoe polish, then, as Dad ducks just in time, the toddler spins and demolishes a display of canned dog food. I stifle a laugh as Dad calmly removes the broom from his son’s grip.

“I wish you hadn’t done that,” he says gently. Then adds, “Not bad, though. Next time, choke up on the bat and follow through.”

I want to judge this man. Instead, I’m impressed. I do not like him.

Right then, my own angels from hell screech into view. One is pushing the mini-cart while the other is wedged inside it and waving a box of ice pops like a victory flag. I sense the father watching my reaction - it’s my turn to demonstrate creative parenting.

Through clenched teeth, I remove my youngest from the cart and instruct both boys to return it to the rack by Security. I remind them they already chose cereal, so the ice pops must go back. After a brief, whispered summit meeting from which I am excluded, they decide the ice pops win. Battletoads is the first casualty, followed by my revenge strategy.

Damn.

My oldest replaces the cereal with sugar water and points into my cart, loudly announcing, “Eww, why are you buying fungus?” They vanish before I can explain that buying mushrooms is easier than scraping it off our shower curtain.

The father smirks as he passes. I want to tell him that his parent-to-child ratio is much easier than mine. Instead, I maintain my dignity and move on - only to find my sons wrestling in front of the courtesy desk. Neither is turning blue, so I pretend they belong to someone else and join the efficient checkout line for my much-needed respite.

As my groceries are processed, I spot my nemesis again in the adjacent checkout. Dad is struggling with Junior, who is demanding candy. Dad obviously caves. He allows his son one item. Junior chooses Tums.

Perfect. They can share.

Meanwhile, my sons are busy applying bubble-gum-machine tattoos with quarters they’ve somehow acquired. I don’t care. Once it’s my turn in that queue, I flip through magazines I have no intention of buying, surreptitiously ripping out perfume samples, while reading an article about a mother who nearly died hiding in her dishwasher.

I eventually glance up at my busy cashier and her crew; they are a fine-tuned machine. That’s when I notice cans of black shoe polish and dog food being scanned and packed. We don’t own a dog. And unless a 110-year-old Elvis is hiding in my basement, I’ve purchased someone else’s groceries.

“Cash, credit or tab?” the cashier asks.

Just a loaded gun.

We leave the commissary, and all I can think is, What the hell just happened?

It takes twenty minutes in pouring rain to find my car. Why doesn’t it magnetically attract my cart the way it attracts every other abandoned one? When I buckle the boys in, I notice their new tattoos: Life's a bitch, then you marry one.

Damn.

As we pull away, my youngest asks what’s for dinner.

“It’s a surprise,” I say. It certainly is, especially for whoever drives home with my groceries. I hope they appreciate ice pops, high-end toilet tissue, and the discovery that bran flakes might actually elevate a meatloaf. Bon Appétit!