Stuck in a Westfield with two

“Well I don’t know why I came here tonight… I gotta feeling that somethin’ ain’t right…”

Trust your instincts when you drive into a shopping centre car park and feel an urge to drive straight out again. This week I decided, for some unknown reason, to take both kids to our local Westfield, which is currently undergoing major renovations. Last time I was there I vowed never to return, so I really don’t understand what possessed me to try again. But I did.

Trolleys: never around when you need one!

Being a Monday morning, and the first day that this centre had introduced paid parking (after three hours free), I assumed that the place would be relatively quiet and hassle free. I imagined that all the commuters that used to use the car park for free all day would have to park somewhere else, and there would be loads of spaces nice and close to the shop entrance for us. First mistake.

The place was mobbed. We drove around in circles looking for a park for about 15 minutes, and ended up parking on the rooftop car park, quite a walk away from the lifts down to the shops. Now I knew I needed to get groceries, so I really didn’t want to take a pram. I’ll just put the kids in a trolley when I get inside, I thought. Second mistake. After trudging about 400 metres from the car to the lifts, with the Stuntman on one hip, nappy bag slung over my neck, shopping bags around my elbow and holding Little Miss by the hand, we were faced with a sheepish looking security guard who quietly mumbled that there was a problem with the lift and that it would be two or three minutes. And when it did come, another security guard would have to press the buttons as they weren’t working. A nagging voice in my head said “turn around, go somewhere else, LEAVE NOW!”, but sadly, I ignored it. It’ll be OK, I thought. Two or three minutes I can handle. I really needed to catch my breath anyway. So we waited for the lift (about 10 minutes in reality), and then piled in with the 20 or so other shoppers who’d turned up in the meantime.

We finally got down into the shopping centre, and the Stuntman started his wriggly-limp-noodle act (where he goes limp, puts his arms up over his head, and basically wriggles out of my arms), and Little Miss promptly ran off. Here we go, I thought. Quick, find somewhere to buy them a treat, STAT. But first we had to walk past the ABC Shop, which is a trial on the best of days. Usually I’ll have at least one of them restrained in a pram or trolley, but this time they were both ‘free range’ and on the loose.

“Mumma, Mumma, look Peppa, it’s Peppa, it’s PEPPA!!!!” screamed Little Miss.  Yes darling.

“Uh! Ooh ooh!” exclaimed the Stuntman, excitedly.

“Mumma, Mumma, Peter Rabbit, Peter Rabbit, it’s Peter RABBIT! LOOK! LOOK!!!” Smile and nod, keep your cool woman. The Stuntman grabs a Tombliboo off the shelf and the whole display topples over. Oh shit.

“Come on, let's go, I can see an ice cream shop over there,” I scoop up the Stuntman over my right shoulder, and somehow lift Little Miss onto my other hip, bags still in tow. I’m now carrying an extra 27 or so wriggly, unwilling kilos, and trying to gracefully maneuvre my way out of the shop without knocking anything else over. This is relatively successful (i.e. we didn’t actually break anything), so once we are a safe distance away from the shop entrance I breathe a sigh of relief and let the kids down.

We now find one of those horrid shopping centre ‘rides’ (a Wiggles car in this case), which occupies them for a few minutes while I try to get my bearings. I have no idea where the supermarket has moved to – I don’t know which way I’m facing, there’s no natural light in the centre, no clocks. It’s like a giant casino, without any booze. I guess they hope that people will just lose track of time and spend hours and hours in there, handing over wads of cash at every turn. It’s horrendous, I hate it.

After a minor screaming match to get Little Miss off the Wiggles car, we finally make it to the supermarket. Hooray, a trolley! I wrestle the Stuntman into the trolley seat and strap him in as tight as the belt will go, grab Little Miss’ hand and start cruising the aisles. Everything is going smoothly now – the Stuntman is secure and entertained, talking to all the old people in the shop, Little Miss is having a good time grabbing things off the shelves and dumping them into the trolley, and I’m checking things off my list. We get to the checkout without incident and I’m feeling so pleased with us all that I suggest we go and have some sushi for lunch. Cheers all round; both the kids love sushi, so off we go to the sushi train. Lunch is also incident-free, and by this stage I’m wondering what I was so stressed about earlier. 

This parenting thing is easy really, just keep everybody happy! Don’t stress! Don’t yell! Offer treats and bribes! Chill out mum!

I now decide to tempt fate by swinging into a different supermarket just to check if they have any coffee pods (which were out of stock at the other place). I know I’m pushing it here, the kids are now fed and it is dangerously close to their sleep time. But I’m a glutton for punishment (and desperate for coffee) so we do a quick lap of the second supermarket (out of stock here too!), and then head to the lift to get back to our car.

“I’m sorry madam, this lift is out of order, you can’t get in, the stairs are just over there.” Umm, what? But I need to get to the rooftop car park on level 5. That’s on the roof. I’m on level 1. I have two very sleepy and almost-grumpy children and four heavy bags of groceries in my trolley. What am I supposed to do?

“Can you call someone to help you madam?” Umm, what?? Who the fuck am I supposed to call at lunchtime on a Monday to come and rescue me from this suburban shopping centre/hell? 

Steam is coming out of my ears by this stage, but I’m trying to hold it together and not swear at the man, if only for the sake of the kids.

Then this dickhead of a security guard sends me up to the next set of lifts up the other end of the centre, assuring me I can access the rooftop car park from that end, so off we trudge another 17kms or so (I may be exaggerating here, but it felt like a VERY LONG WAY!), to the lifts at the other end.

Of course, being the only effing lift working in the whole effing centre, there is a line of people waiting to get in that actually snakes past several shops and doubles back on itself. We wait in the queue for an eternity; Little Miss is almost falling asleep in the trolley, and the Stuntman is doing his best Houdini impression trying to escape from the trolley seat. While I have my back turned sharing an exasperated eye-roll with another mum he actually manages to get his legs out of the straps; as I turn around he is standing up in the trolley seat, reaching out for me. FUCK! I catch him just as he tries to step forward into thin air. 

There is no way I’m going to be able to get him back in the trolley seat . I’m now trying to steer a trolley with a sleepy toddler and four heavy bags of groceries with one arm, and holding a wriggly, writhing slightly smaller toddler with the other arm. Just for kicks, he decides now would be the perfect time for a breastfeed, and tries to help himself down my top. To keep the peace I'm now stand-up-breastfeeding holding him in one arm, pushing the trolley with the other. 'Awkward' is an understatement.

We finally get into the lift, and ride all the way up to the roof. But, as I had suspected, this roof doesn’t connect with the other roof, the one where our car is. I’m almost crying by this point, and take a few moments to try and calm down. I walk to the edge of the roof (no, I’m not considering jumping), and try to look down to see where the two towers of the car park connect. I *think* it’s level 3, so we go back to the lift and wait another 15 minutes or so for the lift to return, and get us down to level 3. Fortunately I’ve managed to get the Stuntman back into the trolley by this stage, so at least I’ve got two hands to control the trolley. I’m in a definite no-pedestrian zone here – running the gauntlet of frazzled shoppers backing out of car parks to get home for their lunch. But my goal is now in sight – I can see the giant giraffe head that my car is parked under. It just happens to be up on the next level, and the only way up is a steep, curved ramp that has two-way traffic and no pedestrian access. With no other way up, I position the trolley in the middle of the ramp (i.e. between the two lanes of traffic) so that we are as visible as possible to cars coming in both directions, and take the ramp at a run. Several people drive past, shaking their heads at me, looking disgusted. If I had a spare hand I would give them the finger, but it’s taking everything I’ve got to get this bloody trolley and my precious cargo up the ramp. We make it! OMG, I nearly cry with relief. 

Our car is just ahead, beckoning us home. I strap the kids into their seats, give them each a biscuit in the hope that it will keep them awake on the way home, and make our way to the exit. As we get to the exit barrier, the fancy new number plate recognition system tells me that I have overstayed the free three hours by 20 minutes, and I now owe $4. I’m pretty sure I burst a blood vessel in my neck at this point. I reach out to press the ‘help’ button, ready to explode, but the boom gate just lifts and we’re allowed to leave. Relief washes over me, tinged with disappointment that I didn’t get to yell at anybody.

Unsurprisingly, both kids fall asleep in the car before we get home. Surprisingly though, I’m able to transfer both sleeping children into their beds without them waking. Finally, a good result.

No more shopping centres for us for a while!

What about you? Do you love or loathe those big centres?