A Note

Dear Smiths Grocery Store,

My Daughter and I love your store. It is well organized and has the best cream cheese muffins on the planet. The neon lights and neatly waxed floors sooth my seasonal depression. You are so kind to give my daughter a cookie, which she makes me ask your baker for every trip even if we are just picking up milk and bendy straws. So I was quite surprised with myself when I began to curse, of course silently, as I entered your lovely store with my girl. You see, she was in one of those carts. You know, the one that looks like a truck and is supposed to entertain a tot and de-stress the mom? I have to admit,it is hard for a two year old to want the old standby when such options are presented: a pimped out red and yellow car, two steering wheels, with beeping horns, and access to anything on the two lower shelves inside the store. I have indulged my children on several occasions and allowed them to be in the driver's seat. In fact, even my nine year old still enjoys pretending to hall our family food around in this miniature semi even if his knees are hugging his ears. I should be praising you, entertaining my kids so my shopping can get done without having them trumpeting off that nerd ropes and Cheetos should end up as part of our weekly cuisine. If only a two year old and nine year old collaberated on the first food pyramid. Solace in the store would be a lovely surprise.

Yet, that is not what I have found. In eight years using these carts, with a four year ban somewhere in the middle, they have been the cause of many breakdowns, miffed old ladies who can't squeeze their slender silver carts past our aisle hogging semi, criminal acts, and chaos added to my regular jaunt to the grocery store. If you have spoken to my husband, he probably would tell you that I need to me sent back to Grocery Cart Ed (Etiquette), but I could be a smart and efficient store patron the right vehicle was provided. So why even use them if I detest them so much? It is their eye-catching parking spot, directly in front of the store. I have to give you a little credit, this was to my advantage during the colder months. I could just simply say, "Oh these are too cold," and my obedient tot wouldn't even think of protesting. As the earth is warming I now don't have an excuse and being the reasonable mom I am, permit my daughter to enter her monster truck, the one kind of monster she isn't afraid of. So I do take some blame in my demise, I do not throw the old parenting prerogative at her and allow her pleasure as I grin, bear, and silently curse it.

Dearest Smith's this is what I am asking. Hide them. Put them in a the far dark corner of the cart corral. Leave them in the far corner where you put your day old breads and pastries. Put them by the broccoli and cauliflower. Better yet, put them in the woman's restroom where my daughter won't go even with bribery of a free cookie from your bakery which she fond she gets whether she disposes of her waste or not. The bakers are much nicer than mommies.

If you would cooperate in this matter I promise we will no longer set off your ant-theft system with ten packs of batteries that sit lay on the floor in the cab being kicked by size six feet.

Thank you for allowing us the pleasure to sniff your pineapples, look at your fancy cakes, and gander at your crab legs.

Kari