Bag Of Tricks

When my first-born was eight months it occurred to me that my hand bag was no longer my own.

Dummies, rusks, spew cloths, bibs and all manner of toys were now crammed into every nook and cranny of my oversized bag.

I liked to call it my bag of tricks. At an early age my son ditched the glorious sleeping-in - public phase and, although a typical male who couldn’t stand my attempted shopping sprees or lunching with friends, he insisted on staying alert throughout the entire outing making the experience a misery.

As a result I turned into the ultimate power-shopper. Here’s how a typical shopping trip unfolded:

I park the car and place baby in the stroller. He looks around excitedly at the new surroundings he has magically materialized into. We set off at a fast pace.

First destination, the chemist – my third home after the supermarket. A fair amount of cooing from the shop assistants later, and we emerge relatively mild-tempered.

Second destination, baby shop (one of my other many homes), but enroute, himself starts to make noises so we divert to the pet shop to marvel at the tropical fish.

Once out the door the grisly mono-drone kicks in so out comes my first trick – toy number one.

This buys five minutes while his attention is diverted, however, the five minutes is up as we make it to destination two’s door. Out with toy number two.

A frantic fly around the merchandise, a few quick purchasers later and baby is getting scratchy again. Out comes toy number three and we head off. However, I am becoming aware of a rather unpleasant smell so it’s a prompt u-turn toward the public toilets.

A swift nappy change and gleeful giggles later and baby is one happy chappy but once he’s back in the stroller, the mono-drone restarts.

Time for my trump card – the rusk. I unfurl this magnificent pacifier from its wrapper in front of baby’s eager eyes and outstretched hand. He grabs at it… and in his enthusiasm… knocks it to the ground. One down.

Sighing I surrender my back-up, and last resort, and know my time is nearly up. He brings it to his mouth and chomps away for a few pleasant minutes. In a last-ditch effort I take this opportunity to swing the buggy round and make a run for the welcoming sight of Glassons beckoning from the distance.

Inside I wrestle the wide-wheeled stroller around narrowly-situated clothing racks, apologising as we run over someone’s toe. I spy a prospective purchase, head towards the changing rooms, and… right at that moment, baby throws his rusk.

I knew I was pushing my luck.

It’s rusk overboard and I’m all out of tricks. Ditching the clothing item and, with a wistful glance over my shoulder, I’m homeward bound with a now wailing baby in my arms.

It was back home to restock the bag of tricks ready for the next week’s attempt.

It dawned on me recently that my bag is, once more, my own.

… Well, that’s aside from a couple of nappies, wet wipes, raisons and a spare pair of toddler knickers.