The Smucasmarket

Being the parent of a toddler is a bit like caring for someone with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder: there is a strict set of routines that has to be adhered to before one can leave the house.

We decided yesterday to have a Family Outing to the shops, and that it would be a good idea to get up and leave the house early to avoid the crowds. Unfortunately, several hours later, we were still stuck at home, unable to set out until certain of the Small Girl’s obsessive requirements had been fulfilled. She had to have her “milky drink” (milk) in her special pink beaker. She had to get dressed herself (a noble undertaking but one which requires limitless patience). She had to have her “special cereal” with the milk heated to just the right temperature. And finally she had to approve a thnack for the journey to the smucasmarket.

I can’t help feeling a certain amount of sadness at the demise of the Small Girl’s cute mispronunciations; I used to get a great deal of enjoyment from the fact that she called the supermarket “the smucasmarket” (she now looks at us with disdain when Darling Husband and I insist on jovially continuing to refer to Tescos as “the smucasmarket”, and I can’t help feeling that the Teenage Years might be closer than we imagine). In the car, the Very Small Boy slept while the Small Girl reflected on what might happen when we arrived (“A warthog might come and bite you!”) and I put on my make-up (well you never know who you might bump into).

The Small Girl loves going shopping with Daddy; she gets to do all kinds of things which are Not Allowed when Mummy is in charge. Daddy lets her dash up and down the aisles; Daddy lets her choose a thnack and eat it on the run... So they disappeared off together when we arrived (“let’s go find a warthog, Daddy!”), leaving the Very Small Sleeping Boy and I to enjoy our shopping in peace. As I walked serenely past the canned goods, I remembered the old days, when I would push the Very Small Girl around the supermarket in her pushchair and she’d casually fling out an arm and drive an entire shelf of mushy peas onto the floor as we swept past.

Stepping over a messy pot of crushed strawberry trifle, I felt smugly pleased that other peoples’ children must be as destructive as my own. The Small Girl seemed to be having a very successful shopping trip today - she rounded the corner ahead of me, walking sensibly over to say “Mummy, that lady’s from playschool”. Waving to a woman standing next to us, she slipped a custardy, strawberry-scented hand into mine and repeated herself loudly as the woman looked pointedly at the vegetable display.

“Is she from playschool?” I asked, trying to hurry her away.
“Yeah, she’s from playschool…. and I don’t like her!” she declared loudly, staring back at the woman.

At the checkout, the Family Outing to the smucasmarket ended with the Small Girl having her usual almighty tantrum about the tantalisingly displayed sweets. And back at the car, the tears continued.

“Well, that was a nightmare”, I said to DH after we loaded up the shopping and strapped the children in.
“Just think”, he replied, “soon there will be two of them running around in the smucasmarket”.

And we both turned to look fondly over our shoulders at the Very Small Boy, sleeping peacefully in his car seat.