Shopping, Vikings and Polka Dot Skirts

My son has the most extraordinary case of Mama-attachment I've seen since my own baby brother.  This is the newborn who growled at everyone who wasn't me the day he was born.  The baby who pushed back my return-to-work date by six months because he couldn't cope with being off my lap for five minutes.  The 18-month-old that I had to make a sling for so I could wear him on my hip* because he'd scream if I made him walk.  The three-year-old who acts like he's being ripped from his mother's arms to go to his death every morning at daycare - who clings to me at night, struggling to keep his eyes open to make sure I don't leave.

I spend a great majority of my time bargaining with my small Viking son over how I will be allowed to spend my time.  Mummy will pick you up after work but she has to go now.  Mummy will bring you something nice from the shops.  Mummy will be here in the morning when you wake up but you need to sleep by yourself.  Mummy has to go to taekwondo but she will be back in time to put you to bed.  Mummy will have her shower first and then you can get in with me.  A thousand reassurances to get him to just let go for five minutes so I can wash my hair, go to the bathroom, get the dishes done.

As he's gotten older it's gotten a bit better because he likes being in my space but doesn't necessarily have to be constantly attached to me.  Plus, he likes to help.  So I'll do the dishes and he'll arrange them on the tea towel to dry.  But there are still times where the Mummy attachment means it's better if I do it on my own.  Times like the weekly shopping - where I tend to distract him with the trampoline or the television and scuttle out undetected.  I hurl around the shops as fast as I can and hope he hasn't thrown a tantrum by the time I get home.  I'd take him with me but the need for constant skin-to-skin contact can slow me down and turn the trip into quite the chore.  This morning though I had no options because Charles was taking Charlotte to a birthday party.  I seized my small son as he zoomed around in a pink polka dot skirt he'd salvaged from his sister's leavings.

"Mummy needs to go and do the shopping and I thought you might like to come with me.  Will you be a good boy if we go shopping?"
"Yes Mummy!  Yes I will be a good boy!  I'll be such a good helper boy!"
"Awesome sauce buddy - but you better go put some pants on."
"No.  I don't want pants, I want to wear my** pretty skirt."

Since I'm not one to impose gender ideals at any age, let alone at the very tender age of three, I told him he could absolutely wear the skirt, but he would need to put some undies on.  But Mummy - insert completely inappropriate boy-related reason for wanting to wear a skirt with no undies that almost made my head explode.  Buddy, you can wear the skirt but you're going to wear undies.

The first part of the shopping was reasonably good.  He wanted to sit in the trolley, he insisted on arranging the shopping in said trolley and for the most part it was okay and he really was my big helper boy.  It's true every two minutes we had to stop because, "Mummy?  Cuddles!"  but even that was kind of nice.  No, the real trouble began after we were done in Aldi and we needed to finish up our shop in Coles.  With the trolley otherwise full the little Viking had to walk.  And he decided the best way to walk so he could have full contact with Mummy was like this;

Ever tried to push a trolley around with 20 kilos of Viking toddler strapped to your leg?  It's exactly as easy as it sounds.  And look at the face on it.  Not only is it almost impossible to shop like this but you get the sense the whole time that you're in the process of creating deep emotional scars that will lead to thousands of dollars in therapy and a string of toxic co-dependent relationships once the kid hits adulthood.

Finally I put the bag of dog food into the toddler seat and lifted my small son into place on top of it.

Perched like that he could wrap his arms around my neck and remain plastered to me throughout the trip.  He giggled and squirmed in delight the whole time and every time we went past someone he would announce, "I'm cuddling my Mummy!" at the top of his voice before tightening his arms around my neck until I started to choke.  But he was happy and so was I.

Finally when we'd cleared the checkout I addressed him quite seriously and said we were going to go and buy him some shorts because it's getting hot these days and he needs something other than trackies to wear to school.

"But Mummy," he whined, "I don't want shorts.  I don't like shorts."
"Well what are you going to wear buddy?  It's going to be too hot for long pants soon."
His eyes flicked down and he smiled slyly at me.
"I'm going to wear my pretty skirt."
"What's with the skirt buddy?"
He looked thoughtful for a moment.
"I don't have to take it off if I go to the toilet, it's good for dancing, *insert inappropriate boy-related comment again*..." he trailed off for a moment and then looked back at me, grinning, "And I look really really pretty."

Yes.  Yes you do.

*  I am not really the attachment parenting type - I spend far too much of my time up ladders to have anything that operates independently strapped to me.  But James' Mummy addiction has been like water on sandstone when it comes to my parenting style.
** Any parent will tell you that the instant the term "my" is applied to anything you've pretty well lost whatever battle you were going to have and you should therefore re-evaluate just how much you care about whatever it is they're getting possessive about.