Grocery Store Menagerie

Note to self: Never buy your body wash in the same fragrance as your baby wipes.

For months, I thought I was suffering from PTSD. Every time I got a whiff of my clean scent, I'd start looking around for a poopy bottom. Then the shakes would start.

I can't imagine why they would make baby wipes that smell like cucumbers and green tea....except to forever ruin the smell of cucumbers and green tea for an entire generation of parents.

And of course that's the only kind they sell in bulk at Costco. Which means we're stuck with it. Heaven knows I love that place, but they have a serious lack of selection. Then again, if a sixty acre store isn't enough to contain everything I desire, well...maybe I shouldn't be so selective.

Okay, sixty acres might be an exaggeration, but still...I get shin-splints just looking at that building.

I suppose I could try shopping at a normal grocery store. You know, the kind that force you to provide all kinds of personal information just to get the sale price - which really isn't a sale at all since they just inflate the regular price to compensate?

But it's not the invasion of privacy that bothers me. Why should it, when I simply make up the information on the spot? (If they looked closely, they might question someone that lives at 555 Notachance Ave.) No, what bothers me is that I always lose the stupid cards...and then, when they offer to search by my name or phone number, I can never remember what phony information I used.

The cashier gives me an odd look as I stand there, sweating and tugging at my collar while I try to think of my own name.

Ten minutes later, they sigh and scan a card that had been sitting beside the register the whole time. Which is really just insulting. Here, they make you feel special...they call you things like "V.I.P" and "Preferred"...and just when you start to believe them, they go and pull out the Rifraff Card.

Apparently, even the commoners get the sale prices.

But, as bad as all that is, the SINGLE worst thing about regular grocery stores is the Couponers. You know the type. The uber-organized freakos with enough time on their hands to clip the same coupons from a dozen papers and stack them neatly on top of each product on the conveyor belt.

Not that they're bad people. Some of my best friends are Couponers! I just wouldn't want to be stuck behind them in line. Or between them and a newspaper.

One of my couponing friends likes to brag to me about her savings. She calls me up, more excited than the day her first child was born, and hysterically gushes about the sixty-two packages of dried onion mix she got for eight dollars. I'm sure there's a method to her madness...it only seems random.

And then there's the whole: "I spent twenty-six dollars and saved TWO-HUNDRED!!"

Really? In that case, I've got a bridge you might be interested in buying...

Now before this particular friend kills me, I will concede that she (probably) does save a lot of money through her couponing efforts. And good for her! But I just don't think it's for me. Mainly because coupon clipping/organizing would seriously cut into my sitting-around time and, well, that's just not happening.

So Chris and I compromise on Wal-mart. They do price matching. Which means no stacks of coupons and no clever aliases. All you need is the ad for the competing price. Which, of course, we forget every time.

Fortunately, most of the cashiers at Wal-mart are lonely, middle-aged women so I usually hide around the corner and send Chris in to pay. All he has to do is LOOK at these ladies and they're reaching behind the register to pull out all the competitor's ads. Yes, apparently they have Rifraff Ads. Is nothing sacred???!!!

Then they go through the entire collection and identify any products he's purchasing that can be matched. Or they give him the inside scoop on when things will be going on sale. Basically, they fall all over themselves to help him out.

My dear, naive husband is convinced it's just their stellar customer service. I give him a disbelieving look...

"What?"

"It's Wal-mart, Honey."

"Yeah, so?"

"You don't get customer service at six bucks an hour."

"Well, they're always really nice to me."

"Exactly."

I've been through the Wal-mart checkout lines more times than I care to count and never ONCE has the cashier voluntarily produced money saving ads. I've even tried dragging my cranky children along and tearing my clothes a little to incite pity.....nothing.

Chris bats his eyes and suddenly every female in a ten mile radius wants to help him out. (example: He recently rear-ended a woman at a red light and she tried to talk the cop out of giving him a ticket!)

I try not to let it bother me since it ultimately saves us money. But since I usually end up doing most of the grocery shopping alone, it doesn't help much.

Which brings us back to Costco. The lesser of the evils.

So I guess I'll just have to learn to live with the PTSD. Perhaps I can seek therapy?

It's a little expensive, but maybe if I send Chris in to make the appointment.....


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Diaper Days

As if things weren't interesting enough around here, Evie has decided to potty train herself.

Every couple of hours during the day, she'll stop what she's doing, strip off her clothes and diaper, and demand to use the restroom.

"Go potty!"

At first, this was a very exciting development.

Visions of a diaper-free pantry danced across my mind's eye. Imagine how much more room there'll be for all the traditional pantry items....like bulk-sized packages of paper towels, wet wipes, light bulbs and trash can liners. Now the wrapping paper from Christmas will no longer have to be wedged on top of the kitty litter and the roll of garage-door-weather-stripping that I bought in 2007!

Not to mention the money! A little cash register ka-chinged in my head as I pictured all the hard-earned cash that would stay IN our account for a change when we finally quit forking it over for diapers every month.

And if you think I'll miss scraping poo off of a squirming bottom, you'd be wrong.

"Oh, Evie," I thought fondly. "My sweet little brilliant daughter that wants to start using the toilet before she's even two years old. My beautiful, intelligent, sanity-saving, baby girl."

That was over a month ago.

So far the closest she's come is peeing on the bathroom floor and smearing it around with the toilet brush.

I'm starting to get discouraged.

The problem here is very fundamental. In order to use a toilet properly, one must hold still and relax for more than three seconds at a time...something my daughter is physically incapable of doing.

She'll dash into the bathroom, dance around eagerly while I put the toilet ring in place, and climb up onto the seat. Before I can say "do your thing" she's jumping off and running out the door.

If I'm lucky, she'll demand a book...which will usually occupy her for a few extra seconds. But even then, she's constantly in motion. Her little legs bounce wildly around while her hips shift and squirm so much that if (by some miracle) she did manage to pee, it would go everywhere except the toilet bowl.

I'm so desperate, I'd still count that as a victory.

No such luck, though. She'll go in the kitchen, the living room, the dining room and the den. She'll go in her bed, our bed, and even Luke's bed. She'll go on carpet, on tile, and on leather. But she will not, cannot, go in the toilet.

And so I've given up. I've waved the white paper towel and put away the Windex. I'm sick and tired of potty-training.

But Evie isn't. And she won't take "no" for an answer. Keeping her clothes on has become a daily struggle.

She'll come into the room, wearing nothing but a diaper...

"Go potty!"

"Evie, where are your clothes? This house is freezing!"

"GO POTTY!"

"No, Evie. Just go in your diaper like normal toddlers!"

She looks at me then, her eyes connecting with mine in a fierce battle of wills as her fingers grasp the velcro tab on the front of her diaper.

"Evie, don't you do it."

A smirk is my only reply and then....rip. The tab is pulled loose and her diaper sags down on one side.

"You fix that diaper right now, little girl."

Her fingers move to the other tab.

"Evie, I mean it. You leave that diaper alone or you're going to time out!"

This seems to get her attention and I'm filled with satisfaction as she runs into the other room, diaper mostly intact.

Until I hear a distant....riiiiiip.

There are moms out there that would LOVE for their children to express such an interest in potty-training. I know, because I've complained to them and that's exactly what they told me.

To them I say:

Where there's a will, there ain't necessarily a way. So shut-up.


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Preparedness

Something I actually caught myself praying for yesterday as I surveyed my barren pantry:

"Lord, if the end times are near and something devastatingly catastrophic is about to happen in the world that will bring America to its knees and forever change our way of life....please let it be right after I make a trip to Costco."


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Mad Science

I am convinced that if I were ever unfortunate enough to fall unconscious while at home during the day, my children would surely kill me.

Here's how:

• Luke would straddle my abdomen, jump up in the air, and slam his bony little bottom (along with 34 pounds of his body mass) directly onto my diaphragm.

• Evie would do the same thing on my face.

• Luke would shout "WAKE UP, MOMMY!" directly into my ear and attempt to force one of my eyes open by gouging his finger into it.

• Evie would stand next to me and calmly kick me in the head.

• They would both step on various sensitive body parts as they walk around and over my prone figure.

• My hair would get pulled, my mouth would get probed, and my face would get slobbered on.

• Something would get bitten.

• If they were strong enough, they'd probably send me tumbling down the stairs.

How do I know this, you ask? Well, let's just say that curiosity got the better of me the other day and I decided to experiment.

At least the bruises are finally starting to fade...



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Curse the Calculator

I sat down to do some math today and figured out that, over the past three years, I have spent 267 hours looking for sippy cups.

That's over eleven full days and nights of walking laps through my house, overturning couch cushions and digging around in toy boxes. Eleven days of scouring the cupboards, the pantry, the bookshelves and the bathrooms. Of making hysterical phone calls to my husband (who only ever seems to know where the shoes are). Of interrogating toddlers under harsh lighting and following one dead-end lead after another.

To come up with this startling total, I estimated an average of 15 minutes a day spent looking for those little buggers. A modest figure, I assure you. And I had to force myself to stop at three years, when what I really wanted to do is look ahead and see how much time I'll spend searching in the future...until my last child learns to use a real cup (without spilling) or goes off to college, whichever comes first.

Eleven days! I still can't get over it. If Israel can win a war in seven days, imagine what I can do with eleven!

I could learn a foreign language or write a short novel. I could drive across the country and take in all the sights, or stay at home and actually finish one game of Sodoku without cheating.

If I spread that time out a little more, I could sleep in an extra two hours every morning for the next five months. Or spend 45 minutes a day for the next year sculpting my abs and trying to get my butt to look a little less like a set of deflated watermelons.

But no, I have to spend that time on my hands and knees with my face pressed to the cold tile floor...trying to spot every nook and cranny that a six inch tall sippy cup could squeeze into.

How depressing.

But then, that's what happens when you play with math.


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