You step out of the house feeling overly optimistic, even a bit smug. Your partner questions your judgment—taking three kids on a school supply shopping trip? But you’re determined: they’ll learn responsibility, understand the value of money, and develop a sense of gratitude along the way.
As you drive to the store, the kids squabble over who gets which highlighter to check off their lists. A quick reminder that they can earn a treat if they help keeps the peace. Upon arrival, you’re focused and ready to tackle the school supply aisle. You spot hand sanitizer on an end cap, and with a swift motion, you grab two bottles without breaking stride.
You navigate through crayons, markers, and glue sticks fairly well, though you have to double-check every list since each child needs specific packages. By the time you hit the folder and notebook section, the youngest has wandered off, yanking toys off the shelves. After gently reminding him of the mission at hand, your tone escalates by the fifth toy he tries to sneak into the cart, and you wonder if the other shoppers can hear your exasperation.
The pencil aisle brings you to your knees—what on earth is a Dixon Ticonderoga pencil? Every package screams “Ticonderoga,” yet “Dixon” is nowhere to be found. You toss a pack of regular Ticonderoga pencils into the cart, remembering last year’s chaos of sharpening 48 pencils the night before school started.
Your patience frays as you snatch the first-grader’s list from him to check off dry erase markers. He can barely read the list, and you scour the shelves for black, fine-point dry erase markers with zero luck. After much deliberation, you grab standard black ones, hoping that’s what was intended.
What does “1 box pink top erasers” even mean? Are they the ones that go on the end of pencils? You can’t recall ever seeing erasers sold in a box, so you toss some standard pink ones into the cart without a second thought.
Next up are tissues, baby wipes, and Ziploc bags, conveniently located at the far end of the store. By this point, the kids are completely over it—so are you. They plead for a toy, and you respond, “Because I’m the worst.” You feel a surge of anger toward the store for not grouping all the essentials together. Tissues and wipes have always been on the school supply list, so why not make it easier for parents? And let’s be honest, the wine aisle should be right next to the school supplies.
Now juggling all three lists, you notice the kids are lost in a snack aisle, ogling Doritos. You refuse to buy them anything else, feeling like the worst. With a mental note to double back for Band-Aids and contact paper, you herd the kids through the store, pondering if contact paper is even still a thing. A kind employee overhears your mumbling and points you in the right direction. You consider kissing her but settle for expressing your gratitude with, “You’re the best!”—which feels like the opposite of how you’re feeling.
You realize you’ve likely hit your 10,000 steps for the day, and as you find what you think might be contact paper—though the package doesn’t confirm it—you mentally prepare to inquire about it later. Passing the hand sanitizer again, you notice your earlier pep is long gone.
At last, you make it to the checkout. The kids bombard you with requests, and in a moment of frustration, you declare, “The next one to say ‘Mom’ loses 10 stars!” Nearby customers chuckle, thinking you’re joking, but you’re dead serious about the $200 tab that just rang up.
As you load the kids and supplies into the car, you can’t believe you’ve been gone nearly two hours—it feels like six. You call your partner to announce you’re wrapping up and contemplate a day-drinking session, only to realize you forgot to buy wine.
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Summary
School supply shopping with three kids is a chaotic and exhausting endeavor filled with squabbles, confusion over lists, and a desperate search for elusive items. Despite the challenges, it’s a rite of passage that can teach valuable lessons about responsibility and money management.