Reset: Chaos at Costco
Meal planning, minor chaos, and the spiritual art of surviving Costco with kids
If you want to listen to the Podcast that goes with this article, you can find it here:
I’ll start here:
I’m proud of the journey we’ve been on.
We’ve worked hard to build a home where my boys actually want to cook with me. Where trying a new recipe doesn’t feel like punishment…
or a ploy to escape out the back door unnoticed.
Each of them has their own little cookbook,
passed down from their sweet, recipe-hoarding great-grandma ,
where they scribble their favorites. And every once in a while, we strike gold. A meal they love making and love eating. You’ve never seen confidence like a nine-year-old carrying his eggs, toast, and sausage to the table like he’s Gordon Ramsay on opening night. Minus the swearing. Plus a hurricane-damaged kitchen.
There’s joy in that mess.
Pride.
Presence.
Connection.
So, feeling like some version of Super Dad on a mission, I decided to take all four boys to Costco for the weekly haul. Because what’s better than getting them involved in meal planning?
(Answer: Almost anything. But I was feeling ambitious.)
The Vision:
Each boy picks a meal.
We make a list.
We hit Costco.
We dominate dinner like a Family Cooking team in a competition with an Instapot.
The Reality:
Drew, my three-year-old tornado in toddler form, decided Costco was his personal racetrack. Full sprint. Full volume. Yelling “I’m the fast guy!” while weaving through carts like he’s auditioning for American Ninja Warrior: Preschool Edition.
We plan for this.
One of the older boys is always assigned to Drew-duty, strategically guiding him through the aisles while making it feel like he’s on a mission in the world’s greatest indoor playground.
Another kid’s on cart duty. Technically. But about every three minutes, the cart becomes Lightning McQueen. Then a Star Wars X-Wing. Then a tank storming in to back up Iron Man. Somehow, miraculously, we avoid running anyone over.
The third boy? He’s my ingredient guy.
Locked in. Scanning for bread and eggs like he’s on a recon mission.
Except he can’t finish a sentence without someone cutting in to plead for “just one special treat.” You know the kind…
obscure, overpriced, and guaranteed to be abandoned after one bite.
Let’s pause here.
These are not normal treats. These are seaweed chips, mango jerky, or some kind of gummy candy with a warning label in another language. Each child promises — with the boldness of a presidential candidate — that they’ll love it forever and never ask for anything else again.
We all know how this ends.
Three won’t like it.
One won’t even try it.
And I’ll be left emotionally eating 72 servings of dried banana bark at 9 p.m. because I can’t stand to waste money or food.
It was chaos.
It was loud.
I was overstimulated, undercaffeinated, and questioning every life choice that led to me arguing about Pop-Tarts in front of strangers.
But somewhere in the trail of free samples and mini meltdowns, I noticed something:
They were in it with me.
Not just tagging along.
Invested.
Engaged.
Trying.
And maybe that’s the whole point.
Not perfect behavior.
Not flawless execution.
Just kids learning to show up…
mess and all.
We made it out.
Dinner was picked.
Breakfast was planned.
Treats were negotiated with the intensity of international peace talks.
And that night, when we closed the day with our usual round of prayers, one of the boys quietly said:
“God, thank you for our trip to Costco.”
That was it.
Simple.
Unfiltered.
And it was enough.
“Fathers, do not exasperate your children; instead, bring them up in the training and instruction of the Lord.” — Ephesians 6:4
I used to think that verse was only about the big parenting stuff: the talks, the discipline, the moral compass moments.
But I’m starting to believe it includes the smaller ones too.
The aisle debates.
The snack negotiations.
The slow, clunky, beautiful act of including them even when it’s inconvenient.
Training and instruction might look like:
Keeping your cool in a crowded Costco.
Laughing when the plan falls apart.
Letting your kids help, even when “helping” adds 30 minutes and 12 questionable items to the list.
That’s presence.
Not controlling every moment…
but being in every moment.
Even the sticky, loud, overstimulating ones.
Even the ones that feel like too much.
When I reflect on it, journal it, pray through it, pull the thread, I can see it clearly:
This is one of the resets God gives me, time that we are all in it together.
If I have the guts to notice it.
If I let it work on me instead of just wearing me out.
Because maybe the real instruction we’re called to give our kids isn’t just about what they do at the table.
Maybe it’s what we model in the middle of aisle 7.
Not a perfect family meal.
Just a dad — present, imperfect, and showing up for the beautiful, ridiculous, grace-filled mess of it all.
You capture the experience perfectly! And reminded me why I’m happy my kids are grown! Have fun with it - it’s a great journey!