Heidi wasn’t feeling so hot, but we had just finished our last piece of fruit in the house and it wasn’t even afternoon snack time yet. We needed a store run for some staples, so I left Heidi on the couch with a blanket and packed up all four of my kids to make a trip to Wal-Mart.
Christopher and I play a little game these days. As we’re pulling out of the driveway, he asks me how many shakes it’ll take up this time. We’ve decided between us that a shake is a minute, and with all four kids there were bound to be some delays over our usual 30 minute store run. Being conservative this time I tell him 40 and he says, “40 shakes it is!”
“To Wal-Mart!” I proclaim, and the kids in the back of the van echo in chorus.
We get there in no time flat, but the a cold norther just blew in, and it’s freezing the kids right through their light jackets that were enough for them not 10 minutes earlier. I load Emy up in the Bjorn, sit Bennett in the cart seat, and Mo and C are hanging on either side of the basket. Mo’s hat blows off in the parking lot once, and when I’m going back to get it, Ben manages to lose his glasses — which I don’t notice until I hear him yelling at me, “Ga-gee, Ga-gee!” But we worked through our minor mishaps and get into Wal-Mart without further incident.
The greeter smiles at me, “You got your hands full!” I nod politely, but say nothing. I’m one minute behind schedule. You have to focus if you’re going to get through the store in 40 shakes.
I go fifteen feet more before I hear, “You certainly have your hands full!” “Yes, I do!” I reply cheerfully.
First stop, some medicine for the Emy’s teething then a quick round in the candy aisle to get Sour Patch Kids for Heidi’s tummy. Then a bee-line to produce, and again: “You sure have your hands full!” Ho, ho! Yes. That’s only the third time I’ve heard that in as many minutes.
By this time, Christopher’s looking at me. His little face is all wound up in thought. “Why do people keep saying that to you, Dad?”
“Because, Christopher, they take a look at a lone dad with four such active and happy kids and they can’t imagine themselves in my shoes.”
“Why is that?”
“Because most of the time dads don’t try to take four little ones by themselves to the store.”
“No, why do we look like such active and happy kids?”
“Because you’re so obviously high-energy and special.”
Christopher points to a probably 10-year-old girl pushing a cart with her mother. “What about her? Is she special?”
“Not as special as you, buddy.” Ok, probably not the most kind answer I could have shared, but hey. She’s special to her mommy, and my kids are special to me. Anyway, we’re still making time. By this time, I have Christopher taking short runs to grab various bags of things — apples, carrots — and I have Mo helping me pick out other more sensitive items — avocado, tomato, etc. Ben’s trying his best to grab Emy’s feet, and Emy’s trying her best to grab Ben’s hair, and we’re doing good.
Big hit with the bakery samples today: whole red velvet twinkies prove to be popular with my kidlets.
We’re rolling, we’re moving. Christopher can recognize and grab the colby jack cheese these days, and he loves being my helper. Honestly, he’s a huge help on these excursions, because a third of the way done, Ben’s finished his twinkie, and now has decided to sing the ABCs at the TOP OF HIS LUNGS! Yes, we’re getting looks. But try as I do to cajole him into using his quiet voice, he’s having none of it.
A B C “Christopher, get a box of graham crackers.” F G H “Yes, the blue box on the bottom.” M N O P “Ok, time to get the the eggs.” U V “We check them because they often crack in the box.” Y AND Z! And so on.
The comments have stopped now. I presume that the singing is some sort of sonic barrier or perhaps like a snake rattle before a fatal strike, it is a warning to all that approaching me with a glib comment will be the last time they are seen alive. This is how people look at me, but it is certainly not how I feel. We’re having a good ol’ time at the Wal-Mart. Kids are helping, I’m just bopping along. These trips are surprisingly easy. I have a list.
I wheel around the corner and around a well-groomed hausfrau in a color-coordinated jogging suit with one child vacantly sucking on a sippy in tow. She sees my kids, then me, and then makes eye contact. You can see a momentary look of panic in her eyes. Whether it is for her sake or mine, I never find out.
Still making time. Almost done, but NO! Apparently we have to stop at the bathroom right now. That’s okay. I wait outside with Ben and Em and send the big kids in to do their thing. (Heidi insert - wait outside the family bathroom he sent the kids into, not the regular one. This is the one room one w/changing table and it’s huge, one user at a time. 
) While they do, Ben starts singing again. A young couple sitting there for some reason start laughing between themselves. They’re charmed by his antics and ask how old my kids are. I answer, the big kids come out, and we’re off again.
Another young mom is around the corner. Not as color-coordinated or well-kempt. She makes eye contact. She smiles. She gets it. You can tell. There’s warmth there, not awkwardness. She’s seeing me with these kids, putting herself in my shoes, and loving the idea of it.
Checkout beckons. I realize that Mo has been hanging on the side of the cart pretty much this entire time. Wow. That PT really paid off.
Our time is almost wrecked by a trainee too incompetent to operate his station and too proud to ask for help. But hey, I don’t really mind. I’m just going to casually ignore Bennett as he starts his song up again while this guy plods along though my groceries. And again. And again. And…
Done! Christopher’s excited. He knows we were really truckin’ this time, but I can’t tell him the official time until we get into the van and look at the dash. This six-year-old can muster unbelievable amounts of patience. Y’know, for a six-year-old.
Final time? 39 shakes! We totally rock.
I’m thinking no…
