The other day I had an epiphany at the grocery store. Well, actually I had two. Three, to be exact. Yeah, I know that’s a lot of epiphanies for one day, but let’s just say that, for me, ghetto Bashas’ is a place of magic and wonder—even without saviour faces appearing on the tortillas.
My first epiphany was that it is now okay for me to go to the grocery store with my children. Well, no, actually, it’s still bad, but it’s bad in a different way from when they were little. At least nowadays they don’t beg me to buy them expensive junk food. Okay, they do still do that, but they don’t whine while they do it. It’s more like evil manipulation than actual whining, and I’m okay with that. Whining is an annoying irritation, but manipulation is an important skill. You know, for when they become politicians and stuff. Hey, don’t look at me like that: technically either one of them could still grow up to be President (juvenile records are sealed, right?) and therefore the manipulation could just be considered practice. Good practice. After all, how are they ever going to get votes out of Iowans if they can’t even wheedle a frozen pizza out of me?
So, okay, epiphany number one: my kids don’t embarrass me at the grocery store anymore. At least not with their whining. Which actually leads me to epiphany number two, and, no surprise, this involves the new way my kids have found to embarrass me at the grocery store: their dancing. Or at least what they consider to be dancing. Because the sad truth is that my kids have absolutely no ability to dance to 80s music. None. And their attempts to try are downright embarrassing.
Look, all I wanted was a moment in the bread aisle when the three of us could dance like Axl Rose when “Sweet Child O’ Mine” started playing. That’s it. It’s not like I was asking them to Moondance or break out some Paula Abdul style moves. Just a little Axl shimmy. But clearly it was not going to happen.
They were terrible. Like they’d never even seen a Gun’n’Roses video terrible. Or maybe like they’d never even seen dancing. Seriously, I’m sure that my daughter, Clementine, knows that there is such a thing as “dance”, and that when people engage in what is known as “dancing’ they tend to do it rhythmically, but you would never know it from the moves she was busting out. She looked more like someone trying to put out a trash fire then someone getting their groove on. And Clyde, the boy who has had dance lessons for the last four years—well, he was dancing, but he wasn’t Axl Rose dancing. He looked like he would have been more at home auditioning for a Michael Buble video than a Guns’n’Roses one.
But at least he was having fun. Which is more than I can say about the totally grumpy guy who was not only not trying to dance the Axl Rose shimmy in the bread aisle along with us, but actually seemed aggrieved that we were blocking his path to the 12-grain. (I assume he was going for the 12-grain. If not, then he should have been: dude clearly needed more fiber in his diet.) Which brings me to epiphany number three.
Yes my kids still beg for junk food. No they wouldn’t know who Slash was if he bit them in the, um, Axl. But by gosh at least they still know when it is time to have fun. And that time is always when your mom suggests an impromptu dance off in the bread aisle. Even if she does have to promise you frozen pizza to get you to do it.