I'm feeling awful proud of myself this week. I actually had my list prepped yesterday. I promise you this is a bigger miracle than you know, like Mother Theresa in a shriveled up raisin miracle, aka a miracle only in the minds of the faithful, or the not so faithful. You know, me.
I guess that explains why I seemingly couldn't follow my own damned list even though I draw it up in a way that puts all the like things together. So don't ask me why my dumb ass had to go back to the soup aisle twenty times and the cereal aisle four more. Just know that it happened.
Actually, I know exactly why. It was that baby of mine, that's what it was. I love the squirmy little bugger but man, oh man, he makes things hard than it has to be. I shouldn't tell tales on this kid. He's actually really mellow. When we arrive, he hangs out in the driver's seat of his swaggermobile, aka, the grocery cart with the steering wheel and vroom vrooms up and down the various aisles, playing with the brand new, oh no, never obnoxious monkey his grandma sent him for Christmas. (No seriously, this thing is adoooooooorable, for the most part.) But inevitably, his interest wanes and there starts up a distinct whine from which a mother can never escape. Then comes the various attempts to dissuade him from the meltdown.
First, you try to get him to play tricks. "How big is pudding?" I ask while trying to remember why the hell I didn't write down what size cans of tomatoes I needed. Once he gets tired of raises his arms, I try to get him to clap his little hands, then we wave our arms, but eventually, this isn't working either. Then comes the cookies. After he's coated in a fine layer of gross, we begin the whining and wheedling portion of our afternoon.
And no, I'm not talking about the baby.
Finally, when the baby is slobbering and whimpering and you've finally found that illusive can of tomato paste, (why the hell are the tiny cans always on the tippie top shelf??), you head from the home stretch and pull into the check out lane after taking out a tower of carefully stacked saltines. There, the baby sobs into his grimy little fists, behaving as if you're beating him while you silently plead with the cashier to hurry it up already. Finally, the groceries are on the conveyor belt and you can pick up the kid. Instantly, he shuts his face, as if you've somehow brought about world peace through the simple act of allowing the fruit of your womb to share his gummed up banana cookies with the front of your cardigan. All you have to do now is hand over your debit card for a quick swipe and you're home free.
Except that your debit card is under the front seat of the car.
It's always the baby's fault.
Anyway, if you made it through, here's the weekly menu.
Tonight: spaghetti with garlic bread (make extra large batch of sauce and use on Sunday and Tuesday)
Friday: pesto chicken salad (bake chicken thighs with pesto sauce, save half for Saturday's dinner)
Saturday Breakfast: a variation of this involving crescent rolls
Monday: crockpot beef tips over egg noodles with broccoli
Tuesday: beef and barley soup and cornbread twists (w/tonight's sauce)
I came in at $128, including $7 worth of coffee, some garbage bags, and the crystal lite drink mixes mr man likes for work. Add in what I saved by shopping at the commissary, and we're at about $150 or so for the average family of 4.