Shopping With Toddlers - Just Don't!

Remember 'Perfect Poffy'? Well just look at her now.


I listened with interest as Wuce listed Poff's most recent anti-social activities which included terrorising 'Midge' the cat whenever he ventures out from behind the sofa, screaming 'Pat Now!' by way of request that her Postman Pat cd be played at once, turning purple from rage when strapped into her buggy and spending increasing amounts of time practising her Tae Kwun Do moves. Next time Grandma tried to put her down for her afternoon nap, Poff was going to be ready.

As I waited downstairs with Poff and Chickie, whilst Wuce visited strange new floors in the furniture shop, where no buggy had gone before or would be going any time soon, I nurtured Poff's new foraging interest, encouraging her to stick her finger as far up her nose as her nasal cavity would allow. The new naughty Poff was only too happy to oblige and I knew how pleased Wuce would be that her daughter had acquired a brand new skill in the time it had taken her to walk up and down one flight of stairs.

As they were pushed from shop to shop in hot pursuit of the perfect wedding outfit i.e. bottom flattening, belly skimming, boob enlarging, dumpy leg extending, bingo wing camouflaging, skin tone enhancing and tan mark complying, Poff was particularly helpful, shaking her head in disgust at the shocking pink lycra number and remarking "gor-jush" to the skintight stripey red dress, although I had serious reservations largely centred around "skin" and "tight".

Chickie, genetically predisposed to being a retail menace, chose to miss the Flump fashion show, opting instead for a tug of war with a disapproving shop assistant. Five minutes of "let go!" later and the pink velour jumper was finally released from his grubby clutches. Or so I thought, when I turned around a minute later, the pull had recommenced, same jumper, same shop assistant. Chickie conceded when the call of nature distracted him momentarily. The shop assistant scuttled off to escape the fumes, clutching the pink jumper victoriously.

The afternoon flew by in a haze of nappy changes, frantic costume changes, counselling sessions following my entanglement in a medium sized dress, more counselling when the large wasn't as large as I'd hoped. Wuce remained calm as she watched me buggy dash around Zara, throwing anything under £45 on top of my sleeping child. "Is this too black for a wedding? is the cream too cream for my skin tone? is this too short? is this too young? what will go with this? oh dear God, what am I going to wear?".

When the babies woke up from their naps during my third trying on of the "is this too black? dress", those shoppers still awaiting a changing room opted for vacancies farthest away from us rather than venture down the end where a half dressed, stressed out mummy stood with her sobbing baby clinging to her like a tree frog.

It was our cue to leave, empty handed, unless you count the miserable toddler suckered to my side and the guilty burden of having confined him to a buggy all afternoon.