If you heard reports of a “sporking” incident at a local supermarket recently, it was us. Well, actually it was one of us. If it takes one to spork and one to run, we had it covered.
Often, Mr. Schrock and I slip out alone on the weekends to get groceries, leaving the offspring at home with instructions to, “Eat the pizza that’s in the freezer, don’t burn down the house, and fold those clothes. Otherwise, have fun.” This time, however, they were along.
Every once in a blue moon, The Mister will call a Krispy Kreme day, and we load ‘em all up, pointing the BMV (Blue Mommy Van) toward Mishawaka. This announcement always sparks cheers from the minors who yodel their excitement and punch each other in sheer joy and delight. That’s how it looks on the front end.
On the back end of the field trip, we, the parents, are dragging home, foreheads sunk into the dash, muttering something that could be either, “What were we thinking?” or “This was your idea!” It’s anyone’s guess.
Anyway, it was just the other weekend that we reenacted this script once more. Father announced, the minors cheered, and we set off.
After navigating the treacherous decision-making process, we finally sat down to enjoy a few stolen moments together. There across the table from us perched three sets of flashing molars, three sugary mouths, and three heads topped with paper hats. In front of them, three bottles of chocolate milk disappeared with astonishing speed.
Looking at those three pairs of clear blue eyes that match their father's, I turned to him with a twinkle and a smile that said, “Look what we’ve done.” And then, “Thank you for bringing us here and for putting up with all the ruckus.”
With errands to run and a college kid to visit, we gathered the remnants of our donut feast, topped off the coffee, and moved on.
The next stop? Target, one of Mr. Schrock’s favorite places in the world to shop. From experience, I know that this will not be a surgical strike, in-and-out experience. After all those donuts and a second round of coffee, I’m too mellow to fuss, so I follow the lively horde through the doors.
Just as Boys Two and Three peel off, heading for electronics, I intervene. To Boy Two’s great disgust, I haul him to men’s clothing, plucking jeans off the shelves before installing him in a fitting room.
In their world, trying on pants is right up there with forced marches through steaming jungles in a prison camp. They’re the POWs, and I’m the wicked warden with a rubber truncheon. As I wait outside his “cell,” I notice another woman waiting close by.
