Shopping centres are magical places.
When I say magic, I mean, because the moment we step through the doors, my son undergoes a mystical transformation from a nice, friendly little boy into the devil incarnate.
Something about all those colours and stimulating products on the shelves turns him as feral as a bush turkey with rabies.
These are the stages that I go through each and every time we hit the shops together:
The first time I went shopping with my son he was just a few months old. I’d dropped the car off for a service and I thought we would spend a couple of hours at the mall together and have a nice time. I pictured us cruising the shops as everyone stopped to tell me how gorgeous my child was. I thought I’d get the new luggage I needed then we would have a lovely mother and son lunch together.
It turns out that my son is not a fan of the pram. When he was too little to walk he demanded to be carried everywhere we went. It was either that or wheel him around while he screamed louder than Axl Rose.
Since he has learned to walk, shopping is even less fun. He takes off down the aisles and the only way I can track him down is to follow the sound of his maniacal laugh. One time we went to Spotlight and I spent over 20 minutes trying to pin him down and prevent him from hurling cushions at strangers.