When DS was 18 months I had the most awkward Tesco trip of my life. It began, innocently enough, in the baby aisle, checking out some bath toys when I hear from the seat of the trolley, "Daddy, a fuck! ". I turn towards DS slightly aghast and convinced I mis-heard. "Daddy, look, a fuck!". Following the direction of his eager pointy finger, sure enough, a net containing a family of various sized bath frogs.
The exclamation of fucks continued, so I decided to hurriedly leave the aisle to avoid further embarrassment. Bad idea, my tiny bundle of joy decided he did not want to leave without the frogs. A downturned mouth, the intense concerned eyes, a hint of a tear, "Daddy" he began to plead at increasing volume, "a FUCK! A FUCK, DADDY..... DADDY!". Straining now to eject himself from the confines of the trolley I realise that the only course of action is to pick up the net of frogs and let him hold them.
Great, he's happy, for a fashion. Until the frogs in the net are not sufficient. Now at least one frog must be removed from the net. "Daddy, fuck" he says holding the net to my face, "fuck?". So I remove a frog from the net and hand it to him.
Peace again as we continue on around the store, DS happily playing with his frog. My embarrassment is surely over........ Nope.
Where better than in the tightly packed cheese aisle amid a full cross section of the Saturday afternoon demographic. DS drops his frog on the floor and at the top of his voice (yep, the top, that part right at the tip of the voice reserved for extreme distress) he yells, "OH.... FUCK".