Anyone who already knows me will know just how much I love a good Ikea-ing. I swore the last time I went to Ikea would be back when I was 50 weeks pregnant with #5. I had ambitiously waddled through the store with my 2 year old twin girls who were determined to walk independently. I was lucky enough to have my gorgeous friend Ali with me who acted as kid-wrangler and potential midwife should Scarlett decide to escape the womb then and there. It was hard work - sweaty, achy hard work. My girls ran in their clumsy 2 year old way around the candle section with the pretty but breakable glass holders and then under the self-serve section of deceptively heavy pieces of Swedish furniture. Fall. Tears. Screams. I swore that would be the last time I would go to Ikea with children.
Yesterday, I went back to Ikea with children.
My lovely stroll around the glasses section (what is with kids and glass?) was destroyed by the nastiest display of temper I'd seen in the last hour. It bothered me as I tried to ignore this screaming, squealing piglet writhing in a circle on the floor between the Brukbar glasses and the Forsla plate sets. The mother clearly didn't know what to do. Older people tut-tutted their disapproval and other mothers gave their thank-God-it's-not-me look. I did my best to pretend I wasn't that piglet's mum, but the unfortunate truth was that I was.
I was left with little choice but to throw this red-faced tanti chucker under my arm and carry her scratching and kicking body to the nearest exit, avoiding eye contact with everyone while pushing the pram and calling for the less evil twin to follow. Where the hell is the nearest exist?
I will never be going back to Ikea with with children.
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