Mr Priceless

Me, my 2.5 year old, Mr Price Home.

I'm facing the wall of bed linen, frantically searching for something cotton, something white-ish, single bed come on, come on!   I know I have a window period of about 47 seconds before the attention span of my son runs out.

My time is up (where's the freaking single bed linen!) I turn around to look for a shop assistant and in that billionth of a second, Finn is gone.  I know he hasn't bolted out the door because I'm facing it and in my mind I see his glee as he races up the aisles of fine bone china and glassware, I see the outstretched hands as they take in all the pretty colours, I see his clumsy feet tripping over each other and the glorious majestic sound of shattering glass and falling shelves.  But nothing happens.  I'm clasping my hands together staring at the ceiling, I look like I'm praying.  I probably should be.

No sooner had that thought bubble taken flight, it was blown away like a fart in the wind. 

'YEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!'

I skulk around the corner and there he is; inside a baby's cot, chucking all the brand new pristine white 200% cotton pillows, sheets and soft mohair, untouched blankets onto the floor, jumping up & down on the specially aerated, anti-fungus, sterilised, a-thousand rand perfect mattress with his dirty shoes - and yelling at the top of his lungs.

Holy hell that's my child.  That's.  MY Child.

I consider running away.  But some do-gooder will report me to child welfare.  I weigh up the benefits of spending years in prison versus admitting he belongs to me.  Prison almost wins.  

A member of Mr Price Home comes bolting across the showroom floor, grabs Finn under his arms and yanks him out.  And then it goes next level.  Finn takes the cuddly soft toys surrounding the cot and throws them at the shop assistant.

'NO!! NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!'

I'm trying to leopard crawl out of the shop wondering if prison overalls come in pink, but he spots me.

'MOMMMMMMMYYYYYYYY'

The entire world is staring; even the guy in orbit has ceased his space travel to get a load of this shit.

I take a deep breath, count to 4000 and then I go all Trinity from Matrix on his ass. Double somersaulting over scatter cushions and this week's 'Special Offer' I pick him up with one-hand (potentially) dislocating his shoulder; knock everyone dead with the rage that is emanating out of every pore of my body, fly down the escalator, windows shattering as I pass, and throw my child (who has suddenly realised the magnitude of poo that he is in) into the car.

I lock it.  I unlock it.  I walk away.  I come back.  There is a guy in a white BMW gawping at me I think he is afraid to get out of his car.  Finn is sobbing, it's not even 10 am and I still don't have any single bed linen.  Jesus fucking christ.

As my anger ebbs away, I look at Finn all red in the face, covered in tears & snot staring at me through the window, his impossibly massive eyes imploring me to take off the black leather cape and become his mommy again.  I open the door, he dissolves into my arms and we sit on the floor in the parking lot with the cars inching past our toes.

People keep asking me when I'm having the next baby.  Well I can tell you that as I sat there leaning against a greasy wheel with my weeping child, I saw my ovaries taking a walk, little suitcases in hand, hats on their heads, waving goodbye as they went.

So, not anytime soon it would seem.