Like most parents, it’s the little things that can make a normal day, extraordinary.  For instance, if I ever get a chance to go to the grocery store alone, it feels like I’m a 16 year old getting the keys to Dad’s Mustang.  I roll all the windows down in the minivan, I crank up the music and I tend to sing at the top of my lungs all the way there.

“If I could turn back TIiiiimmmme!”

Then at the grocery store, I walk leisurely through the aisles, coffee in hand, laughing at the ease with which I can put a loaf of bread in the cart’s basket, where normally a small child would be sitting and attempting to kick me, or pull a jar of pickles off the shelf and onto the linoleum.

Yes, a simple solo trip to the grocery can feel like an hour and a half in the Caribbean, (which is an indication that I’ve never been to the Caribbean).  And as much as I enjoy these simple times, unfettered by the burden of dragging three children into a store so I can buy a gallon of milk, I have a secret.

I kind of like going shopping with my kids.

I know, I know.  That’s crazy talk.  But once my last little one heads off to school, I think I will revel in my freedom for about a week, and then I’ll probably just be horribly depressed.

This all occurred to me yesterday while I had my two youngest tagging along with me at Sam’s.  I was pushing them around in that oversized cart which always makes me feel like a little person  and we were playing the little games that we always play. 

I start walking quickly with the cart, picking up speed, then I tell Asher that I need to look at something and to “stay right there.”  I then stop and turn to pick out some cereal as the cart continues to travel on down the aisle.  I then turn and in mock horror look around for the cart as Asher erupts into giggles.  I then rush to the cart “I told you to stay right here!  What are you doing?  Why don’t you listen?”

I’m hysterical.

We also play games where I tell them to hold something for me and then I put a 5 pound bag of frozen peas on their lap.  They shriek with frozen glee.

Or I’ll pick up a gallon of Tabasco sauce; put it in the cart and say, “I think we’ll drink this instead of milk from now on.

Again, I am a funny, funny man.

I don’t know, I just enjoy being there at the store with them.  I enjoy having them both strapped into a seat facing me, talking with me, laughing with me.  I talk in funny accents and accuse them of squeezing the Charmin, they swear that they didn’t and tell me I’m silly.

It’s nothing really, just a throw away part of our day; something we do half a dozen times a week.  And of course, there are times when it’s miserable.  There is no joy or humor in having to drag three cranky kids into the grocery to pick up a gallon of milk on the way home.  It’s a 30 minute endeavor that ought to take 5.  But when we’re not rushed, it can be quite pleasant.

My daughter is in Kindergarten and now my oldest son, Asher, has started to take on some of her duties, like holding the receipt to show to the old man as we leave the store (why we have to do that is beyond me).  And it occurred to me yesterday that what I used to do with Audra and Asher, I now do with Asher and Micah.  Eventually it will just be Micah and then one day (unless my wife totally folds) it will just be me.  I’ll still probably talk in funny accents, but instead of other shoppers looking at us with endearing smiles, I imagine they’ll call security. 

It’s going to be a hard adjustment, but I guess I’ve got a few more years before I’m an empty carter, which is why I’m going to try to enjoy the time I have.

Now if I could only think of something to do with a gallon of hot sauce.