Screeeeeeeeeeeeech.

I decided to face all my demons, fears, and apprehensions yesterday and make another foray to the grocery store while outnumbered by my children. Any remnant of common sense has pretty much be relegated to a small, desperate, fading voice in the back of my subconscious at this point, so it's quite easy to ignore.




Tate once again decided that he should have his own cart. I again ignored the little sing-song in the back of my brain going "You're an iiidiot, you're an iiidiot, you're an-" (that was me stomping on common sense and bringing it's song to an abrupt halt) and said sure, fine, whatever. Let's make this trip one to remember. It's been a good week since our last adventure that cumulated in me quivering in a corner.




Tate picked the Demon Screecher Cart From Hell. Seriously, as we were walking around people were covering their ears and cowering under the potatoes. It sounded like a gigantic rat was screaming as someone dug it's entrails out with a spintery wooden spoon that had a rusty nail on the end. My ears were practically bleeding by the end of it. Then to add to the cacophony Tate decided to merrily sing "The Wheels on the Bus" at the top of his voice. It sounded a little something like this"

"SSCCCCCREEEEEEEEEEThewheelsonthebusgoSQQQQQQQQQEEEEEEARRRRRRRsaysmoveonbackmoveonREEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAASSSQQQQQQQQQQQthemommysonthebusgoshhshhshSHHHHHHHARRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGQQQQQQQQQQ"


It was a lovely medley. People alternated between laughing at Tate and shuddering in sheer despair over the never ending auditory torture they were subjected to as they desperately tried to pick out a nice cut of pork tenderloin and get the hell out of there.



Check-out was fine. Tate likes to take all the stuff out of his little cart and put it on the belt himself. It's a good way for him to help. It's a great way for me to realize that apparently we're buying 3 bags of nasty barbecue flavored Cheetos. I don't think so, pal.



Leaving the store, I turned my back on Tate for 1.3 seconds to try and convince Nora that hanging out of the cart by her little toe wasn't such a good idea and he jetted. I had a slight moment of "Oh-my-God-where-is-my-KID??" until a kindly elderly dude teetering past me pointed me to the gigantic freezer where the bagged ice is kept. Apparently not only is it an ideal home for ice, but also for slightly wacky almost 3-year-olds. I got over there just as his little rump was disappearing through the door. He's gonna be the next kid to get stuck in one of those claw machines at Wal-Mart or something.



Well, Nora is currently wandering around with no shirt on and gigantic slimy nuggets of mandarin oranges in her hair, her pants and diaper are falling down so she's showing off her impressive mini plumbers crack, and she has a piece of ravioli stuck to her cheek. Tate just started howling in panic because he dislodged his little Cars toilet seat and almost fell into the big toilet. It's a high-class day here at our house. High Class.