There was no way around it today. Having procrastinated (or reprioritizing, as I like to call it) the last few days, I knew today was the only day left to food shop before our guests arrived. Given the rising temps in Central Europe, I saved the hottest day to go. The only store that was remotely air conditioned is called Kaufland. It is comparable to Wal-Mart in size and selection. Piling the kids in the car in the mid-morning heat, I genuflected to the shopping gods that all would go well.
The parking lot smelled like high octane sniffing glue. Sophia's eyes lit up as she took deep breaths, despite my admonitions to hold her nose.
"I like this smell," she cooed, her eyes rolling slightly in the back of her head. I hurriedly ushered my children to the shopping carts. Because they are coin-operated, I had to get change at the information desk inside. Back to the carts I flew, leaving the kids with our shopping basket and list inside.
Heady from the glue smell, I rushed down the aisles, taking no time to compare prices and grateful that my children seemed relatively balanced. That is, until someone stopped me while the kids took turns weighing the vegetables and slapping the price tag on the bags.
"Where are you from?" she half-grinned in perfect American English.
"Virginia, but I've been here forever..." I didn't feel like exchanging biographical data. It was too complicated to explain the various moves between the continents, and my bilingual kids, etc.
"I have two children, too," she half-smiled. The kids' rhythm was messed up, and they began to fidget. "Yours sure are lively..." she said, squeezing a melon to test its ripeness. Looking more closely, I saw them. The thin lips. The ones that say "Are your children borderline AHAD?" Guiding my brood to the frozen food section, I thought about it.
Kaufland is stimulating. I enter overwhelm the minute the automatic doors swish behind me. It is large, colorful, and clearly a place unsuitable for children. But now I sound defensive.
The check-out line was short, and the cashier was very friendly. At this point, I had barked at both kids to stop hopping around or I would put back the chocolate I had promised. Asking if I required any other assistance, the cashier gave me a sympathetic smile.
"Well," I ventured, feeling I had nothing left to lose. "You could offer your customers childcare, like IKEA does..." I found myself whispering. It was the Parental Conspiratorial Whisper. You know the kind.
Without a word, she handed me a comment sheet for management. I wrote it down and gave it back to her. She winked. I grinned. My children wiggled all the way back to the car...