Blood Sports
Men think football is tough. Those Brits say rugby is even tougher. I've seen players get wailed in baseball. And how many hockey players have a full set of teeth.
You know what I say to all those players? Ha! You only think you know what tough is. Hockey? Bring it on. Football? Tom Brady doesn't scare me (well, the idea of an undefeated Patriots scares me a little, but it's not the point here). Rugby? Who needs a wussy helmet?
I've got a sport that puts them all to shame, a sport I may lobby the Olympic Committee to have added to the games. My sport? Oh, all you moms of preschoolers and toddlers already know what I'm talking about: It's the search for a car cart.
Yes, the car cart. It's a game of skill, of speed, of cunning. And lucky us, we get to play it two or three times a week.
It starts innocuously enough. Enter any Shaw's, any Stop N Shop, any Whole Foods, or whatever your supermarket of choice is, and you'll hear that plaintive whine, "Mommy! I need a car cart!" As everyone knows, the grocery stores keep approximately 2.1 car carts for every 27 preschoolers who enter the store, ensuring a good battle every time.
Some days, at some times, it's shooting fish in a barrel. You spot a lone one in the parking lot, with nary a soul around. It's yours. But other times, say five o'clock at the Whole Foods, and it's a blood sport. You leap from your car. Your teammates run ahead, to see if, by chance, there's one sitting at the entrance. From the corner of your eye, you see another minivan pulling in. "Run!" you yell. "Run faster! Don't forget to check the other side!" Little feet are huffing and puffing, while the younger of the two throws out additional challenges, just to make things more exciting. "Car cart! The space shuttle one!" The bigger ones, "I see one! I see one!" until you point out that someone's actually already sitting in that card. So you scour the parking lot, all the while keeping an eye of the other family emerging from the van, the one that is sending out their own pattering feet of car cart emissaries. You eye the other parent, mentally shooting rays of death, or at least, regular carts, at them.
The parking lot is empty. There's only one move left. The checkout line block. With screaming child in hand ("Mommy! I need a car cart! Where are the car carts?" you head to the checkout lines, where you dash up and down the aisles, just steps ahead of the other minivan parent. And then you see it. A car cart. In the far aisle. Warily, you approach the grown-up attached to the cart. "Would you mind?" you ask. "May I follow you out to your car?" No need to explain. They've all done it before themselves. So in the bitter cold, you carry one screaming toddler under your arm, with a preschooler hanging on for dear life to your jacket, as the other mom tells her two kids, "It's okay. We're all done with the cart. It's someone else's turn." Of course, this family is parked in Siberia, but it doesn't matter because you can push the kids back to the store.
Wait for bags to be unloaded. Wait for kids to stop screaming. Wait for kids to be unloaded. Unload your two in. Referee the "I wanted to sit on the other side!" commotion that happens no matter which side you seat your child. Head back into the store to buy the three items you actually came for, carefully maneuvering the cart, which is designed to hit as many endcaps as possible. Make sure to gloat to the other minivan family on your way in.
Football? Yea. I don't think so. Bring it on, boys.
You know what I say to all those players? Ha! You only think you know what tough is. Hockey? Bring it on. Football? Tom Brady doesn't scare me (well, the idea of an undefeated Patriots scares me a little, but it's not the point here). Rugby? Who needs a wussy helmet?
I've got a sport that puts them all to shame, a sport I may lobby the Olympic Committee to have added to the games. My sport? Oh, all you moms of preschoolers and toddlers already know what I'm talking about: It's the search for a car cart.
Yes, the car cart. It's a game of skill, of speed, of cunning. And lucky us, we get to play it two or three times a week.
It starts innocuously enough. Enter any Shaw's, any Stop N Shop, any Whole Foods, or whatever your supermarket of choice is, and you'll hear that plaintive whine, "Mommy! I need a car cart!" As everyone knows, the grocery stores keep approximately 2.1 car carts for every 27 preschoolers who enter the store, ensuring a good battle every time.
Some days, at some times, it's shooting fish in a barrel. You spot a lone one in the parking lot, with nary a soul around. It's yours. But other times, say five o'clock at the Whole Foods, and it's a blood sport. You leap from your car. Your teammates run ahead, to see if, by chance, there's one sitting at the entrance. From the corner of your eye, you see another minivan pulling in. "Run!" you yell. "Run faster! Don't forget to check the other side!" Little feet are huffing and puffing, while the younger of the two throws out additional challenges, just to make things more exciting. "Car cart! The space shuttle one!" The bigger ones, "I see one! I see one!" until you point out that someone's actually already sitting in that card. So you scour the parking lot, all the while keeping an eye of the other family emerging from the van, the one that is sending out their own pattering feet of car cart emissaries. You eye the other parent, mentally shooting rays of death, or at least, regular carts, at them.
The parking lot is empty. There's only one move left. The checkout line block. With screaming child in hand ("Mommy! I need a car cart! Where are the car carts?" you head to the checkout lines, where you dash up and down the aisles, just steps ahead of the other minivan parent. And then you see it. A car cart. In the far aisle. Warily, you approach the grown-up attached to the cart. "Would you mind?" you ask. "May I follow you out to your car?" No need to explain. They've all done it before themselves. So in the bitter cold, you carry one screaming toddler under your arm, with a preschooler hanging on for dear life to your jacket, as the other mom tells her two kids, "It's okay. We're all done with the cart. It's someone else's turn." Of course, this family is parked in Siberia, but it doesn't matter because you can push the kids back to the store.
Wait for bags to be unloaded. Wait for kids to stop screaming. Wait for kids to be unloaded. Unload your two in. Referee the "I wanted to sit on the other side!" commotion that happens no matter which side you seat your child. Head back into the store to buy the three items you actually came for, carefully maneuvering the cart, which is designed to hit as many endcaps as possible. Make sure to gloat to the other minivan family on your way in.
Football? Yea. I don't think so. Bring it on, boys.
Labels: parenting
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