Spy Kids Live!
I’ll be heading to the grocery store soon, accumulating the Monday morning re-stock that turns my squeaky-wheeled grocery cart into a clunky second-rate parade float decorated with canned goods and cereal boxes. I’ll try to grab every item on my list so I don’t have to endure the quiet misery of a return trip tomorrow. But I WON’T let my kids know I’m in a hurry. In fact, just to throw my little shoppers off course, I may loiter and lolly-gag rather than scurry and sprint.
Because last week I learned a little lesson about the liability of hurry.
It began as an innocent game. A playful way to lure my youngest brood through the store at the end of a long and wearisome day. We’d just dropped Lizzy at the soccer field and had twenty-minutes before we needed to be at the junior-high to pick up our resident football player. My homemade spaghetti sauce was simmering in the crock pot, but we still needed some pasta to complete the dinner menu. My post-it-note list contained a measly twelve items, but I knew that getting in and out of the grocery store with three whiney children at five o’clock in the evening could take more time than we had. So when I pulled into the parking lot, I turned around and eyed my small shoppers. In a serious and secretive tone, I told them that we were NOT on an ordinary shopping trip. We were on a secret agent mission. My children’s eyes grew big.
“I’ve just received word from Headquarters,” I confided. “The enemy has landed in our town and it’s up to us to drive them out before nightfall.”
I looked each kid in the eye and continued. “I’ve been given twelve ingredients for a secret potion that will run the bad guys out of town. We must secure the goods, deliver them to the boss who is waiting in the junior high parking lot and then let headquarters do the rest. I’m gonna need your help.” Blonde heads nodded from the back seat. My mini-agents assured me that I could count on them. I gave Hannah three items to secure once we entered the store. We called it the “triple B”: broccoli, bananas and bagels.
Josh jumped up and down in anticipation of his mission. I bent low and whispered in his ear. “You’ve got to secure the hotdogs and yogurt.” He saluted like a soldier. “But don’t tell anyone what we’re doing,” I warned.
I put Maggie in charge of driving the get away car (aka: the plastic car-shaped grocery cart) just in case the enemy spotted us before we could exit the store.
I scanned my list and made a mental note of the nine remaining items. The kids began to saunter toward the produce aisle and I glanced at my watch. We had fifteen minutes and counting to get through the store and back into the van or my firstborn would be stranded at football practice. I quickly gathered my fellow agents and shared one last detail, sure to bolster our pace. “By the way,” I whispered as we stood in front of an end-of-the-season-melon-display, “the Boss told me there’s a bomb in the meat department that’s set to blow at five-thirty. We’ve got fifteen minutes to get through this store before the whole place explodes!”
Joshua’s mouth dropped open wide. Hannah’s jaw set in determination. “We can do it, Mom! We can do it!”
The kids took off in a near-sprint. I followed at a steady clip behind. We whisked through the store at stealth speed, (I suppose it helped that both kids literally raced by the meat department with a grimace) and we planted ourselves in the check-out line in nine minutes flat. Hannah elbowed me and shot me knowing winks as we passed our twelve items to the cashier and watched the unassuming teenager bag the secret potion ingredients. I was feeling like a genius as I glanced at the clock on the wall and pulled out my wallet to pay for our goods.
The bag boy was just piling our small load into a cart when my dear friend walked through the door with a long list in her hand. My kids jumped up and down with happy hellos and she returned their greeting with a smile. Suddenly, Hannah stopped waving and glanced at the clock. 5:17. Her eyes shifted from the clock to our sweet friend and back to the clock again. A look of horror crossed my daughter’s face. Before I could stop her, she climbed atop the car cart and waved her hands in desperation. With an earnest shout, she warned our friend: “Hey! Hey! You NEED TO HURRY. There’s a bomb in the meat department and it’s GONNA BLOW!”
All eyes turned toward my noisy mini-agent. Several shoppers behind us began to chuckle. An elderly lady to our left grimaced and shot me an indignant gaze. The bag boy grinned and asked Hannah if he could hop in our van’s trunk and take cover. Suddenly realizing that she’d blown her secret identity, Hannah placed her hand over her lips and swore to say no more.
Meanwhile, I shot my dear buddy, Rick a penitent grin (yes, Rick– the store manager who meets me most Monday mornings at the front door of the store with his industrial-sized mop— “just in case…”). Then I gathered up my spy kids and vowed to never hurry through the grocery store again. At least not until I get the next call from Headquarters!
