Shopping With Six Bodies

We are out of food. Well, let me clarify. We are out of food that people want to eat.

The best course of action to take when you need to make a large grocery run, as everyone knows, is to load up the entire family and head to town. On the 30 minute drive to The Big City, hymns play softly on the stereo, kids giggle in the back seat, Mom and Dad pleasantly discuss all manner of things.

“Do you have your list?”

“Yes Dear, I have my list.” And so on. The sun shines and the day is young.

When we arrive at the Winco parking lot, the first sign that things are not so idyllic is my indecision over taking my purse into the store. It’s safer on my person rather than left in the car, right? On the other hand, it’s ever so much nicer to walk through the aisles slinging bananas and bulk pasta into the cart unencumbered by a giant purse. Take it out, put it back, take it out again. The Husband is very patient about this sort of thing.

Upon entering the store, I attempt to immediately get down to business bundling lettuce and weighing apples. That would be great. However, every single child must suddenly use the bathroom. False start.

When we all reassemble and begin to herd ourselves through the produce section – and I have doubled back twice towards the bulk M&Ms – the Husband hastens the settling of reality by commenting on the state of our situation.

“This is a lot.”

“What is?”

“Shopping with six bodies. Look at us. Trying to move through this crowded store.”

I glance at the kids. The Eldest has snagged my list, counting up how many items are on it. Long ago, he devised a complicated algorithm that tells him how much time he will have to drag himself around this store. Nose in the paper, he repeatedly bumps into displays and neighboring carts while calculating. Our second son, who we affectionately call the Deuce, is lobbing I Spy questions in increasing difficulty towards number three, who we call CoCo (again, affectionately). Every time CoCo guesses wrong, Deuce crows, and CoCo punches, and Deuce, in turn punches back. The punches themselves start out casual, but will assuredly escalate to Ali vs. Foreman. The Daughter, being four and still able to squeeze into the child seat, has draped herself over the handle of the cart and chants a low but constant, “I’m so thiiiiiiirsty. I’m so thiiiiiiiirsty.”

The punching handled, and the walking around with nose in paper curbed, we forge on. Thirst will have to wait.

We move en masse through the aisles, stopping occasionally to soothe a toe stubbed on the cart, calm a sudden burst of hyperactivity, or for me to peer at a price per ounce.

“Wow, what a deal on…on…” As I drop handfuls of 48 cent tuna into the cart, I notice a jumbo pack of s’more poptarts. “What’s this doing in here?” Husband and children are a unified front of shrugging shoulders, hands in pockets, shuffling feet. A couple of them look up at the ceiling and whistle. “Huh.” Oh well.

We reach the deli section. The refrigeration sends all four kids’ arms retracting into their shirts like skinny turtles. Teeth chattering, backs hunched. Until Deuce realizes how delightful it is to twist side to side and whip his sleeves around, winging an unsuspecting middle-aged man picking out salami.

“Stop that. Put your shirt back on normal. Don’t you know you hit that man?” It is a proven fact that any time we say, “Stop that,” to a child, the next youngest will always do the exact thing that we are reproving the older one for. So, you guessed it. CoCo hits the same man in the same manner.

We trek through dairy and frozen foods to the more tropical climate of the bread aisle, however people begin to feel the effects of the journey.

“My legs hurt. I can’t walk any more.”

“My side hurts, and I can barely swallow, my throat is so dry!”

“We’ve been here forever! I’m so starving!” (Okay that last one is me.)

In the checkout, we let the boys sit on a bench by the drinking fountain. I watch them take turns putting each other in a headlock. Hey, at least they’re taking turns. A grandmother in line behind us attempts to chat up the Daughter, but she shakes her head and buries it in our pile of coats. This is a step forward from the karate chopping motion and the “Uh uh uh uh” sound she used to make at people. The grandmother returns my apologetic smile for an understanding one.

The Husband sends me a look that says, “We are on borrowed time.” I return the look with a silent, “Let’s do this.” We bag, load, and pay like a well-oiled machine, and call the boys from their wrestle-bench. Car loaded, seat-belts fastened, we pull away with sighs of relief. We did it. I deflate slightly at the thought of unloading when we get home.

“Now. Milkshakes!” shouts the Husband. The kids cheer mightily.

And my heart swells with even more love for him than I felt on our wedding day.