The three boys and I arrived home from Religious Ed classes last night tired and hungry. Hubby and I dredged the bottom of the pantry and managed to find something for dinner. However, when the boys poured the last drop of milk into their cereal bowls this morning, I had to admit defeat - it was time to go to the grocery store.

Between homeschooling and writing, my housewifely skills suffer. Laundry is always a heoric effort. I whip the loads in and out of the machines between using the stair-stepper and making dinner. (when I say “whip”, I mean at a lightning speed of doing about 1 load per day, which roughly means laundry 7 days a week… and when I say “use” the stair-stepper, I mean step over it…and when I say “make” dinner, I mean heating chicken nuggets in the microwave).

Cooking also has a pretty low priority - by 4pm, after a full day of teaching and writing and whatever-else-had-to-be-done-that-day, the last thing I want to do is prepare a meal for an hour. Especially when it takes the 4 males in the family about ten minutes to demolish it. Besides, I gave up trying to really cook when I realized that my husband’s comment to my home-made stuffed pork chops and dressing was, “That was nice”; the following night when I served frozen pizza, he could not stop raving about the delicious meal. I mean, why fight nature?

Thinking ahead to plan meals for five people for a week takes a certain amount of time and preparation (plus having to plan alternate meal choices for the 7-year-old life-long vegetarian - the kid wouldn’t even eat the chicken-flavored baby food as an infant). Then, there is the actual trip to the store in itself.

There was a time I was not allowed to do the grocery shopping. My husband actually forbid it. Oldest boy was 4 and 1/2, middle was 2 1/2, and youngest was about seven months. I have vague recollections of what led up to the shopping-ban, but they have a nightmare-like flavor to them. First, I had to use one of the big, shopping carts that have the added section on front to seat children - the 18-wheeler of shopping carts. You can easily take out a display stand of baked beans if you lack the engineering skills needed to turn it at the correct angle into the next aisle.

Oldest and middle sons each sat in the extra seats. Middle child was still little, so I had to strap him in tight. Oldest was so active, I had to strap him even tighter. Baby went in the cart, facing his brothers.

Middle child was at the stage where he greeted all life’s adventures by crying (this period occupied the first three years of his life. When he woke up, he cried. Hungry - cried. Stranger looked at him - cried.) So, the entire shopping trip, he fussed - he didn’t want to be there, baby was kicking him, big brother was touching him. In the meantime, baby had learned a new game - how many things can I throw out of the cart when Mom turns her back to get something off the shelf? It took me a while to catch onto this game. I actually thought I was going crazy for a while - I mean, I knew I had already put chips in the cart. I could remember it clearly, but there was no evidence they had ever existed. I happened to turn around and catch baby chucking loaves of bread and apples into the aisle. Oldest child said solemnly, “Yeah, he has been doing that for a while”. Meantime, middle child had switched from fussing to howling. Oldest had to use the bathroom every 15 minutes.

I think the trip took about two hours (finding the missing groceries was like a scavenger hunt around the store. Baby had a good arm!), all the store employees hated me, and I went home in tears. At that point, Hubby said there was no way I needed that stress in my life, and he would do the shopping for now, dear man.

Those day are in the past now. Baby is five, all three children are capable of walking (even though you wouldn’t know it to see them at the grocery store. You would think they were on mile 20 of a 50 mile forced march). However, trips to the grocery store are always a roll of the dice. Some days they are no problem, some days they are glimpses of life in the fiery here-after.

I guess I should have known when I made sure I had five minutes of morning prayer this morning. After all, the Evil One knows how to attack us where we are weakest. I prayed, we went shopping.

What followed was 45 minutes of pain. Oldest child, now nine, started acting goofy right off. Younger two were a little too playful. I also made the COLOSSAL mistake of trying to make it part of our schooltime. After all, the grocery store offers many mathematical opportunities. So, I made up math problems using the items on the shelf (like, “If two loaves of bread cost $4, how much will I spend if I buy 4 loaves?”). My children reacted like they did not know what “numbers” meant, much less being able to even count to 10. Feeling like the biggest failure in homeschooling ever, and seriously regretting dragging three kids to the grocery store, I took a deep breath and fought the urge to sit down and cry in the cereal aisle.

I gave up.

We are home now. Groceries were bought, brought home, and put away. I poured my self a nice tall glass of soda, sampled a piece of cinnamon bread, and here I am writing - cheap therapy.

I guess I should breath a sigh of relief that the grocery shopping is done. For this week.