Mom’s Costco buddy
Henry is unsure whether he likes his status as my designated Costco companion.
My 12-year-old son, Henry, made the mistake of being extremely pleasant and helpful on a recent trip with me to Costco. He cheerfully did such things as run back to grab a two-pack of peanut butter that I’d forgotten to pick up three aisles previously; sniff out the best samples and battle the crowd to grab one for each of us; and push an extra cart around so I wouldn’t have to stack my enormous load of groceries like a 1980s Tetris champion.
As we headed out to the parking lot to begin loading up the trunk with our colossal haul, I told Henry that that was one of the most pleasant Costco experiences I had ever had. And thus, Henry was crowned Mom’s Costco Companion.
This is not a position that anyone would ever aspire to, because, while there might be a food-court churro as a reward at the end, it’s an otherwise thankless, plodding, and tedious job.
When I go to Costco, it is a major event. I only go once a month, and when you’re buying bulk-size groceries for a family of eight, the cart fills up pretty quickly. I am also the designated “snack lady” at Logan’s dental office, which means that I keep the break room stocked with various granola bars, packets of trail mix, and giant bags of candy. All of those snacks fill up yet another cart.
It’s a lot to push around and load and unload. So you can see why, even when there are spare hours in my morning where I could get a Costco trip done, I will still wait for Henry to get home from school so he can accompany me. Unfortunately for him, his help is indispensable.
On our most recent trip to Costco, we had just about made it to the check-out line when Henry looked incredulously at our two carts and asked, “Did you mean to get all this food?”—as if the boxes and bags and jugs of sauce had somehow mistakenly made it into our carts of their own free will.
A woman passing by laughed at Henry’s comment and we exchanged a glance, because we both understood: although I did intentionally pick up all this food, I did not expect it to escalate so quickly.
But when you’re at Costco, and an industrial-size bag of your favorite candy (Cadbury Mini Eggs) is just sitting there, you can’t simply pass it by. And the freshly prepared chicken pot pie that will save you from frantically throwing dinner together the minute you get home from this epic Costco trip—well, you’re not going to leave that behind either. The batteries, the pre-cubed butternut squash, the box of 1,000 water balloons that you won’t need until August but are calling your name in March anyway…these things are all somehow irresistible when they’re sitting on a shelf at Costco.
And just think: I’m not even the crazy one. When Logan goes to the store—whether it be Costco or just a regular grocery store—all bets are off. I’ll send him in to get eggs, salsa, and apples, and he’ll come home with six bags of specialty chips that he wanted to try just because they were each a slightly different flavor of jalapeño. He’ll buy name-brand ice cream in the little pint size, thus prompting my eyeballs to do the thing that happens in cartoons, where the character’s pupils are replaced by dollar signs.
Logan is obviously the fun parent, and my kids love it when he goes to the grocery store. I like to remind them that in the long run, my more sane approach to shopping will be better for them, because I won’t drive us to the brink of bankruptcy every time I head in to grab some milk.
But kids don’t care about things like that. They want their “fun, snacky things” (a direct quote from 16-year-old George when I asked him if he had any Costco requests)—at all costs. Too bad happy and helpful Henry is the one left holding the bag.
The aftermath of one of Logan’s trips to the grocery store.