This week’s column comes to you at the request of a friend. A few years ago, I’d emailed her to vent about a crazy shopping trip with my kids. Zach was 5 at the time, and Eli was only 1. I felt very aggravated when I originally wrote her, but my email made her laugh, and she requested that I share the story here. Perhaps you will relate to both my frustration and the humor contained below.

Grocery shopping before having children was something I enjoyed. I loved trying new recipes, and always overspent on the best ingredients. Once the kids arrived, I found I spent more money than ever, but could no longer call the experience “enjoyable”.

One day, I took the boys to check out our new neighborhood grocery. I wrangled them into one of those oversized, hard-to-steer kiddy carts. Instantly, Eli discovered that the high ceilings rendered a delightful echo to his voice. Each screech dissolved both boys into laughter, which attracted annoyed stares from other patrons. That was embarrassing enough, until the boys began fighting. I found myself refereeing an all-out battle before I even began shopping!

As a distraction, I asked Zach to get some bananas. Giggling, he tried his best to bag them, but most fell to the floor. Feeling it would be dishonest to exchange them, I added a few unblemished fruits to the bag. I gathered some vegetables, and then headed for the cereal aisle. We had to stop along the way to pick up the cucumber Eli had flung from the cart, and for Zachary to retrieve the flip-flops that kept falling off his feet.

“Cocoa Puffs!” Zach yelled as we strolled by his favorite cereal. “No, honey, not today,” I murmured, gazing up at the boring cereals. My realization that Zach was no longer in my peripheral vision coincided with a loud thud and grunt. In an attempt to grab the cereal, he’d fallen off the cart and was rolling down the aisle behind me. “Zachary!” I exclaimed, as he hopped up, unscathed. “That is not the kind of behavior that earns a treat,” I hissed, placing the cereal back on the shelf.

Two flip-flop recoveries later, we made it to the meat department. As I scanned labels, something suddenly whizzed over my head. Eli had sent my poor cucumber on yet another flight out of the cart. I made a mental note to sign him up for softball, and nearly knocked over a cracker display as I heaved the gigantic cart around to fetch the battered cuke. I also silently cursed the inventor of the tall, flat shopping cart that enables kids to reach everything behind them.

I opened a box of cookies to keep the boys occupied. Eli became a sticky mess just as I remembered I’d left the baby wipes in the minivan. He begged for a “dink” while Zach whined of his impending death from thirst. I grabbed two bottles of cold water from the cooler. Eli promptly choked on his first sip, and turned a brilliant shade of raspberry while I patted him and hoped he wouldn’t hack chocolate cookies back up onto my white shirt.

While my back was turned at the cheese counter, Eli “Houdini” wriggled out of his safety belt, stood up, and clapped joyously. Another meltdown began as I buckled him back into his seat. His fury escalated as he wedged himself sideways under the straps. The last ounce of patience drained from my body as I sprinted toward the open checkout lane ahead. I unfastened screaming Eli and held him on my hip as Zachary and I unloaded our mutilated purchases. Hot dog buns had been flattened under bleach. Dented yogurt cups, crumpled cereal boxes and bruised produce were scanned while Eli tried to noodle his way out of my arms to run free. He and the cashier flirted long enough for me to find my debit card and bid farewell to $87. I promised myself I’d find a babysitter the next time the cupboards were bare.