Confessions of a Shopaphobic

We've had a crazy couple of weeks around here, and it'll only get more hectic before things settle down. Zero free time on the weekends means grocery shopping on the weekdays...with the ten-month-old in tow.

I've shopped with Will before, but always with him in the Bjorn, which he's long since outgrown, or the stroller, in which case I have to limit my purchases to "whatever will fit in the basket beneath his seat." Read: one package of cheese, one loaf of bread. So last week I finally put Will in the shopping cart, after lots of hand-wringing about how he would surely get antsy after five or ten minutes and I'd have to dart out of there with only a gallon of milk in my free hand.

I was only worried because nobody had told me that shopping carts were designed specifically to entertain active children and are, in fact, MADE OF MAGIC.

Whenever Will got restless, I'd put my face up to his and race the cart down the aisle to elicit some gleeful giggles. And when he realized that all the fun noisemakers (cereal, pretzels, plastic packaging of any kind) were actually behind him, he simply swiveled around and played until it was checkout time.

It was worth the wait.