A trip to Boots the Chemist; An Epic Journey.

Let it be known that my younger children are confident; those in the know might add ‘theatrical’ or ‘dramatic’ .  All of this is true.  It’s is a double-edged sword though.  So very sweet when you’re out walking; both full of smiles as they make conversation with every person who passes ‘hello lady, I like your dog!’ most will ‘ooh and ah’ over what lovely girl’s I have and how confident they are and I naturally glow with pride!   I then mentally praise my parenting skills and marvel at the engaging personalities of my little girls. How wonderful! 

Yeah; but this is not always the case.

Recently I took them both to Boots for an injection.  After battling from the car-park with the pushchair; that the three year-old didn’t wish to be in, the seven year-old gave me narrow-eyes and exclaimed in a packed lift that I should ‘be more patient with Livy as she’s only 3’.  I match her narrow eyes and attempt to telepathically convey that she should ‘shut it’.  A further lift  had to be negotiated but the three year-old was now quiet as I’d done what any decent Mother would and posted chocolate buttons into her open mouth at regular intervals.  I then marched them both through town to Boots and after yet another bloody lift (which let’s not forget involves ‘who presses the button’ which must be battled out; cue lunging, hitting the ‘open door’ and in one case the ‘alarm’ button.) 

I arrive out of breath and make myself known to the Pharmacist who I swear is no more than fourteen.  The seven year-old seeing an opening whilst I catch my breath announces what we’re there for and that she needs a wee first.  Super! 

So we re-trace our steps and once more find ourselves back in the lift.  Shit there are now stairs to contend  with; only a few but I can’t exactly launch the pushchair with child attached down them? I’m forced to let her out; never a good thing.  Then launch the pushchair down and encourage both to hold each side whilst dashing for guess what?  Another fucking lift!  We get in then out and finally into the public toilets…grim.  

Seven year old relieves herself and washes her hands…cool….back in the lift; what is that smell?  3 year-old has also relieved herself; in her nappy.  Hooray!

Back out of the lift and into the public toilets; again….grim. 

Nappy changed I’m now sweating and have the resting face of a Sumo Wrestler with strangulated piles.  Back into the lift, then out of the lift; back up the stairs (heaving the empty pushchair whilst clinging to the three year’s olds hand; yeah not so easy) back into the ‘inner’ lift and up then out and finally back at the Pharmacy desk.  At this point I have said vile things under my breath, mentally bludgeoned a few ‘old slow’ people to death and seriously contemplated putting the kids into ‘respite care’ whilst I book myself on a yoga retreat.

The seven year-old  announces that we’re back; she’s had a wee and Livy’s had a poo!  We’re ushered quickly into a tiny side-room where the seven year-old asks a million pointless questions whilst I try to make sense of what the Pharmacist is saying and read the leaflet that have been thrust in my direction.  We decree that the three year-old should go first.  With her nestled on my knee I’m once more a picture of maternal wondrousness as I whisper words of encouragement into her tiny pink ‘lugholes’ and the fourteen year-old jabs her; literally. 

At this point it kicks off.  The three year-old appears to think the needle is still in her arm and screams for the Pharmacist ‘get it off me’ then adding repeatedly ‘you idiot’.  The seven year-old is clearly feeling left out and has decided  that she will NOT be having the injection and is now sobbing having squeezed herself as far into the corner of the room as humanly possible.  The Pharmacist looks a little like she might cry and is asking me to clarify if a further injection is taking place…stupid bitch how the fuck do I know?  At this point I’m also debating squeezing myself into the corner of the room and sobbing or perhaps I should just climb into the pushchair and hope the Pharmacist call’s the local Mental Health Team? 

Instead I haul the three year old; half dressed off the chair and ‘shoe-horn’ her bucking and screaming form into the pushchair.  I then declare in an overly loud voice that ‘we’re leaving now and where should we pay’.  That’s right folks, I had to hand over £110 for this experience.  The seven year-olds main concern at this point is whether she can still have a bag of ‘Skittles’ even though she refused the injection?  The three year-old is now chomping like a rabid dog and barking ‘shut up’ to any member of the public who glances in her direction.  I have to stand on the public desk; not cry and pay up. 

I then sweep with my head held high and a look on my face that tells all those within my eye-line ‘do not fucking tackle me; I will see you dead’ and head back towards the…lift.  We go down into the main shop and I make the decision that it might be easier to ‘give in’ to the seven year-old buy ‘Skittles’ and more chocolate buttons and bottled water because they’ve both lost a shit load of fluids in the last fifteen minutes.  I’m then forced to carry my ‘feral’ three year-old; still screaming back through the streets in and out of yet two more fucking lifts and into the car park.  I shit you not after wrestling her into her car-seat and handing her chocolate there is suddenly silence.  I take a couple of deep breaths to calm myself. Then she is laughing; like a loon, both her and the seven year-old have apparently found the entire experience utterly hilarious. 

I mean come on; where the buggery fuck is my sense of humour?!

Glancing in my rear-view mirror I catch sight of my beautiful girls and smile; truly grateful that they’re mine.

That last bit is a massive fucking lie but me downing half a bottle of wine before 5pm on this day…is not. 

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