Get out of my dreams and under my Christmas tree! That’s Myles’ Christmas sorted. Shame this isn’t a real product.
Today we took a trip to the city to go Christmas shopping but because of where we live, it takes us almost three hours in the car to get there. Three hours with Little Houdini is trying to put it mildly. Funnily enough, Maia didn’t want to join us. We have tried adding extra clips to our son’s car seat, tying the ends (which fills me with dread should we ever have an accident) and tried making the straps as tight as possible but still he escapes. I swear that boy can dislocate his shoulders or something.
One thing I really admire about the city is the amount of small children and prams that are about and that the shops and restaurants make things easier for people with children. I also feel sorry for people without children who have to put up with screaming kids, honestly as a mother of one of them, we don’t do it deliberately. We would give anything to just go in a shop, browse leisurely, maybe grab a cup of coffee and a wee cake and calmly saunter back to our car with everything we had intended to purchase. We certainly do not enjoy having to bribe our children with chocolate which will end up as sticky handprints over us and everything else, to leave our handbag with our shopping as we bolt after an escaped toddler (good luck to anyone who steals my bag – no money, just used baby wipes, half eaten food and a sticky bottle of calpol). We really don’t enjoy hurriedly restacking shelves as our children throw items all over the aisles. As for coffee and cake – by the time you drink it, its cold and your cake has been smashed into the table and can be found for the rest of the day in both you and your toddler’s hair.
In the car on our way to a specific shop, I got cocky and ordered our stuff to “click and collect” so we could just be in and out. In my haste, I forgot to pay for it at the time. When we arrived, we went straight to the checkout with the thought that our stuff was there waiting to keep us going. Either side of this tiny aisle was laced with small, grabby items designed for stocking fillers or something. Myles wants this, Myles wants that. “Oh I’m sorry Myles, I didn’t realise you needed nail polish, a my little pony, a spice set and 24 batteries.” I don’t think so son! The man behind us had a can of Monster which Myles also wanted. Yeah right! That’s the last thing we need. The girl in front had a furry hood which he kept grabbing, she would laugh, I would apologise. I literally had nowhere to turn – it was 360 degrees of, “c’mon now darling, don’t touch that” through gritted teeth. I really wanted to just scream like a wailing banshee, “for the love of God, just stop fucking touching stuff you little shit.” Now, I’ve never seen a mall jail but I expect I would had I gave into this urge or at the very least had an angry voicemail from Social Work waiting when I got home. And as if by magic, our parcel was waiting and we flew out the door, harassed as usual.