It was Saturday and we were having company. It had been a busy week so there was no earlier chance to dash to the grocery store to get dinner ingredients purchased. So, fingers crossed, Graeme and I took our spazzy three year old grocery shopping. On a Saturday. In the morning. When everyone else that lives in our neighbourhood does their grocery shopping. I know. Brave.
We divided the list between the two of us, me blitzing down the aisles, loading up on items in both arms, Graeme in another aisle, with our son and the cart. Navigating through the throngs of shoppers and their varying grocery carts was like Austin Powers and his attempt at a three point turn. It was busy. Like, bump carts, excuse me, sorry, excuse m-, could I get by, I just need to reach by you, sorry, oh, sorry, busy.
I was nearly done getting everything I needed when I heard the crying. My son was hollering and I could hear him just on the other side of the canned vegetables. I knew Graeme would have a handle on it but I was mildly curious why he was howling the way he was. It’s likely that he didn’t get something he wanted, or he wanted out of the cart. The usual grocery store antics.
I see them come down the aisle, Graeme looking nonplussed. My son, wet, red faced with a runny nose. And the conversation with Graeme goes like this:
Me: What does he want?
Graeme: An egg sandwich.
Me: Oh, is that all? (Me, turning to wailing son) We’ll make you an egg sandwich when we get home.
Graeme: No, he doesn’t want a new egg sandwich.
Me: What do you mean?
Graeme: He wants the egg sandwich he didn’t finish eating this morning for breakfast.
Me: You mean the one that we put in the compost?
Graeme: Yeah, that one.
Graeme: Yeah, talk about a 2 hour delayed reaction.
Me: *laughing uncontrollably as my son is howling with sadness*
You just couldn’t take the crying seriously. However, we did consider fishing that sandwich out of the compost. Just for a moment.