Thursday, October 14, 2010
There’s not much I don’t love about being an adult, being a parent to many kids, being what I suppose ‘grown up’ means.
I have no problem with all the medical interventions my children need. I can change a G-tube in under a minute. I know how to give injections. I know many details about at least 25 different medications – none of which are my own.
I don’t mind doling out needed discipline. I don’t mind helping a child learn a skill – even if that helping goes on and on. I don’t mind watching baseball when I would rather be watching Dancing With The Stars.
I don’t mind paying the bills each month or growing my own vegetables or cleaning the bathroom – a lot because I have three boys in the family.
I love to cook and I always present meals in a pleasing manner on a plate. I can make a mean chocolate chip cookie – everyone, including my coworkers, loves my brownies, and my apple pie recipe won first place at our State Fair one year.
I have a few problems killing bugs, but as long as I have enough bug spray in which to drown them, I am ok. I can change a plug on the vacuum cleaner cord, and caulk a bathtub. I get the oil changed in my vehicle every 3000 miles, and I can sew curtains and clothes.
I decorate our home for every season, and I grow enough herbs to last a year and to share with others. I know how to get almost any stain out of clothing, and I know that bleach is one of a mother’s best friends.
But there is one ‘grown up’ task I abhor. It comes around every single week no matter how much I try to avoid it, and it consumes way too much of my time. GROCERY SHOPPING.
I don’t mind planning meals or listing the things I need to purchase. It’s the actual act of going to the store, walking the aisles, picking things from the shelves and putting them in my cart, taking them out of the cart and putting them on the conveyor belt, watching the cashier scan my items, being asked if I have any coupons, watching the bagger put things in bags, taking them to my car, loading them in my car, taking them out of the car and stacking them on the counter, putting everything away, and THEN STARTING ALL OVER AGAIN IN JUST 7 SHORT DAYS.
With six people in the family, grocery shopping and the resultant tasks can easily take 2 hours. That’s two hours I could have been reading – or playing with Ashley – or stroking the cat – or watching the fish swim in their tank – or ironing clothes – or going out to eat – or most importantly, sleeping.
Two hours a week – 104 hours a year – and if one lives to, let’s say 85 years old, over 6000 hours in a lifetime.
I know we have to eat, but I am ready for the Jetson’s approach to meals – touch a button and up pops your food.
If anyone would like to psychoanalyze me to figure out why I dislike grocery shopping so much, please feel free. Maybe some answers would help me…