This morning, I opened my pantry door. A few tumbleweeds blew out. Other than those, it was pretty barren. I rounded up my hungry, growing cherubs and headed to the Commissary.

Confession--it didn't quite happen like that. I gave them breakfast. And then a snack. We had some food. Just not everybody's favesies. And no milk. Or bananas. Or flour. Or....

We got to the grocery, and I asked Luke if he had to use the restroom. He insisted he didn't. We looked for the kind of shopping cart with a firetruck on the front, where the boys could sit and steer. Usually, this kind of cart causes problems, because the seat belts are all broken and George doesn't sit like he's supposed to. So after I tell him ten times to sit on his bottom and he obeys for three seconds before standing up again, he has to sit at the top, facing me. And oh, the wailing and gnashing of teeth (mostly gums, actually). The reaching out to strangers, begging for compassion, all red-faced and slobbery. The judgment on the old ladies' faces. It's too much to bear! But today I came prepared with a belt that I could slip through the seat belt holes and secure my little Georgie Porgie with. Alas, no firetruck cart. Bummer.

George sat facing me, and Luke sat in the main basket. All was well until we got to the cantaloupe display. As luck would have it, the cantaloupe display is the very first display you come to. George wanted the cantaloupe up front with him. I set it next to him, and Luke snatched it away. They continued this way with every single produce item I put in the cart. I felt like a divorce court mediator, divvying up the goods. "No, Luke, you just got to hold the onions. Let George have the zucchini and you will get the squash in a minute."

By the time we got on the first aisle, the anger was palpable. Luke snatched the bag of miniature marshmallows away from George, and I wouldn't have been surprised if George had pulled a switchblade out of his little fisherman sandals.

On aisle three, Luke urgently declared his need to use the restroom. We ditched our cart in favor of the two-year-old's delicate bathroom habits, and I prayed the whole time that my groceries would still be in tact when we were finished. They were. However, they had all spilled over to cover the bottom of the cart so that I couldn't put Luke back in. He'd have to walk.

A whole new world was opened up to him. He inquired about Pop Tarts, Count Chocula, some new Cinnabon product in the granola bar section, and a bazillion other things he doesn't need to know about. He pawed at hot dogs, Cool Whip, and chocolate milk. Funny how things like oat bran and rice, also on his eye level, don't pique his curiosity.

While Luke was living in a junk food fantasy land, George was busy snacking on graham crackers, and then grabbing at my shirt with his gummy hands. I was left with a conspicuous graham cracker crumb hand print on my chest. He had a major ax to grind, due to the fact that I had forgotten his sippy cup, and he was being taunted by the jugs of milk in our cart. He screamed in thirsty agony during the last fifteen minutes of our shopping trip.

Slightly worse for the wear, we checked out. Fortunately, I caught Luke just in time as he was attempting to shoplift a tube of Aim toothpaste.

I opened the back door of my minivan and shuffled my gear around: a double stroller, a single stroller, a booster seat and a potty chair. As I made room for the groceries, my bagger, a good-looking teenaged boy with Zac Effron hair, said to me, "Wow, your minivan and all your stuff make me never want to have children!"

I flashed him a dead-behind-the-eyes smile, took away a dollar from the cash I had in my hand, and then handed him the remainder of his tip.

The end.