In the doghouse

The kids are in the doghouse today.

While in the pet aisle selecting cat accessories for the Gypsy clan that has taken residence in my bedroom closet, I soon realized that it was awfully quiet… Blessing #5 sat in the shopping cart like a sweet little cherub, but B#s 3 & 4 were no longer gawking at the fish swimming in the tanks. I finally discovered them a couple aisles down, inside the big doghouse that was on display.

With some hesitation and a definite lack of enthusiasm on their parts, we left the pet area and headed to find all the other things on the list. Fortunately Super Wal-Mart has most everything I needed, so I was able to cover most of my shopping list in the one shopping trip. Unfortunately, I zigzagged through the store because my list was not organized by Wal-Mart aisles.

B#s 3 & 4 were much more pleasant when confined to the doghouse… and this was unfortunate because the doghouse was not attached to my cart.

B#5 soon was ready for a nap and started to squawk and squeal and fuss. I just left him in his seat because the shopping would’ve only taken longer if I had to hold him on one hip, select my groceries with my free hand, and push the cart with the same hand and another hip… all at the same time. So despite the stares of others (obviously concerned with my lack of concern over an unhappy baby… and also obviously annoyed by the tired shrieks leaving the lips of this unhappy baby), he remained where he was… not quite so cheruby anymore!

One of the stockers felt it was necessary to lecture B#s 3 & 4 because “you are not allowed to poke on the food.” First, they weren’t exactly poking. And second, I might have been a little more understanding if we had been in the produce section or the bread aisle. But since we were looking at the packaged deli meat, I didn’t really think it was a big deal if they touched the blocks of ham slices.

When we finally got in line, I specifically chose the lane that was in direct view of the kiddie fun center so while I was paying, the older two could go sit in the fire truck with Bert & Ernie… and wouldn’t be rearranging the candy display. As soon as I had paid, I looked at the receipt and immediately noticed that I had been overcharged on two items (the cat items, of course). So, I mention that I’ve been overcharged, and the cashier bluntly says, “Well, I could fix it here. But my line is long, so just go over to customer service and they can take care of it. Anyways, the line isn’t that long over there.” So, I have to drag my kids off of the yellow tractor and swaying motorcycle to go stand in the isn’t-that-long line at customer service. Evidently I’ve forgotten my eggs at the checkout because the cashier comes and puts them in my cart. “You forgot your eggs.” And she said it with about the same amount of oomph as how it is typed—emotionless, if not annoyed. I smiled and thanked her. She didn’t respond other than to turn and walk away. I would’ve expected that if I had insisted she fix the overcharge errors, but I guess she was just frustrated because she had to leave her register with the long line of more-important customers to bring me my eggs at the fun center... ten feet away.

The lady at customer service didn’t bat an eyelash at the item that rang up for nearly $20 but said $12 at the shelf. She simply refunded the money for it. But the bag of kitten food that was on red-tag clearance for $2.50 was a different story. She gave me the I-don’t-believe-you eyebrow thing, “But that’s over half the price of what it’s ringing up as.” To which I reminded her again that it was on clearance and had a red price tag on the shelf. “But it’s ringing up at $5.68.” To which I reminded her again-again that it was on clearance and had a red price tag on the shelf. More raised eyebrow thing. So I finally say, “You can send someone over there to check it out if you’d like.” She shook her head, sighed, and just gave me my three dollars for it.

My phone alarm starts beeping to remind me that it’s time to head to school to pick up B#2. I drag B#s 3 & 4 from the “hiring center” touch-screen computer where they are applying for jobs. I put B#3 into the other seat in the cart… which reminds B#5 how unhappy he is. He starts squawking again and pushes out his little baby arms to protect his bubble of space.

B#5 is fussing because he wants to be alone.

B#3 is fussing because he has to ride in the cart.

B#4 is fussing because she has to leave the store.

Following a mild form of tantrum throwing-- times three shrieking monkeys-- my knee pushes #3 further into the cart, as I pick up #4 and flop her over my shoulder.

We leave the store. I am calm but frustrated. B#s 3 & 4 get a Monkey Moma lecture because I am disappointed by their behavior. “No Spider-Man video today because you chose to disobey.” More crying.

Oh, they are so in the doghouse.

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