www.I'llhaveoneofeverything.thanks

The cool breeze that hums past me as I march soiled nappies to the outside bin provides little encouragement to me these days.

‘It’s too cold to exit the dwelling!’ say I. ‘I will freeze, I will perish, I will complain!’

A crackling fire calls to me from the cosy lounge room, where I can sit happily in my pyjamas and hide from a world where I will never be as young and skinny as the cast of Gossip Girl.

And if I’m honest with you, summer offers little difference in this opinion.

‘It’s too hot to exit the dwelling!’ say I. ‘I will melt, I will perish, I will complain!’

Regardless of season or element, there is always a part of a Mum’s brain that sighs depressingly at the notion of leaving the house.

The nappy bag, the copious costume changes, the abundance of snacks, the gruelling nap time schedule… and the prams. Oh the prams. How fun they are to mount and dismount in car park after car park. 

The good news is that I have discovered a marvellous type of magic power that permits me to stare at the thought of wrangling two sleep deprived children through a supermarket and declare; ‘NO! Not today!’

It is a darling, genius little trick that I like to call “online shopping”. You may have heard of it. 

It beckons to me the moment I peel open the laptop and begin to chatter about on the keys. As if by guided force, I find myself locked in a web of children’s clothes, vintage homewares and 50% off shoe sales.

Two clicks and a coffee in, I have achieved what trailing about a shopping centre would do in several hours. No blisters. No parking costs. Not heavy lifting. No screaming at children to stop touching things.

Then, like magic, the parcels start to arrive. Each time I open the door, I’m greeted by an array of delivery people offering up little packages of delightful surprises. I know that technically I’ve paid for them, but how joyful it is to be presented with items so neatly wrapped and inscribed with my name.

Even grocery shopping threw its hand up and begged to be involved. Once a week a knock at the door signals the arrival of all my regular delights. They even bring it into my kitchen. I stand there sipping coffee in my slippers and laugh with villainess joy at the children who were robbed the chance to throw public tantrums.

‘There must be a catch?’ I continued to ponder. But on the parcels came as my relationship with the delivery man blossomed to first name basis.

That was until a twinge on guilt began to surface. Not only the obvious social discussion that had arisen over taking work from retailers and the like, but the feeling of infidelity towards the keen shopaholic I had once been.

Oh how the smell of Italian leather would make me giddy and gush. The feeling of running my hands over a rack of freshly unpacked dresses and noting the detail of the fabric. The look of display windows at home stores that made me want to curl up in them and claim squatters rights.

There had been a very long period in my life when Confessions of a Shopaholic had been less like light reading and more like a survival manual.

Now here I was, a recluse who sat hidden behind a computer screen (or, worth noting, the delicious little shopping aps on my phone).

Not only did I no longer want those outings, the very idea of them caused me to cringe. Oh, how hard it was to navigate my pram through a shoe store. What damage my children could do to a rack of delicately sewn clothes. And stores with breakable merchandise - absolute horror.

I have grown tired and cranky. I don’t want to indulge in anecdotes with shop assistants who are barely old enough to be feeding themselves, I want to sit with unwashed hair and shop without judgement. I have lost the urge to contemplate and search.

For I am a mother and I demand efficiency!

Regardless of the opposing reasons, I have found myself utterly, heartbreakingly smitten with effortlessness online shopping. (Not addicted, in love. Totally different.)

We are so good together. ‘What do you want from me?’ it asks.  ‘Girls hair accessories and a pink raincoat in a size 5..’ I reply. Like magic, it makes it happen.

I feel like it knows me intimately. Its attention to detail is displayed daily. ‘I notice you enjoy Peppa Pig merchandise. Have you seen that the DVD’s are on sale?’ it will note, ‘shall I fetch them for you? See who has them stocked cheapest including shipping?’

The years I wasted trying to scuffle in the door with shopping bags stuffed under my jacket as Soccer Hubby stood tapping his foot in an accusing manor.

‘What have you bought now?’ he would say.

‘Nothing, total necessities. Our children need to be clothed,’ I would argue, shifting the bag with matching tutu’s a little closer to my chest.

There is no more need to hide receipts in the neatly allocated console of my car when all I need do now is move them to a separate folder in my email marked ‘work stuff’.

The string of emails arrive in an almost flirtatious manor. ‘’Tis toy sale time,’ they tell me. ‘Want to just click on a few toys here and there and have Christmas sorted in your tea break without standing in line at Layby?’

‘Yes!’ shout I, ‘that is exactly what I want!’

‘Shall we just sort out a payment plan and have the gifts magically start to arrive around Christmas time for you?’

‘Yes! I do! Let’s do that!’ I yelp with glee.

And it does! It really does! Some of them even arrive wrapped! Santa Claus and his mythical friends are alive and well, they have just upgraded to reaching us via technology.

No longer am I restricted to opening hours. If I awake at 3am and decide I absolutely need a new coffee table, I can have one on its way before dawn. No longer am I forced to chase around a store looking for a sales person. If I want to know if the throw rug also comes in blue, I can scroll down and add both shades to my cart quicker than I can say ‘excuse me, do you know if..’. No longer do I have to endure the torturous glares of people casting judgement of my parenting as my 3 year old screams for five more minutes at the toy store. I can yell without witnesses and blatantly ignore her loud arguments.

I can be all those things. I can edit everything I hate out of the equation. Glaze over the realities and see only the outcome. I can put the shop in photoshop.

Debates and risks aside, the power of this option has filled my world with hope. And I love it.

Like that moment in The Wizard of Oz where Dorothy opens the door as the colour of Oz seeps in and engulfs the sepia screen, my door has been opened to a world of mystical power and possibilities. A world where if I wanted to own a copy of that movie, I could find it on sale and have it delivered in 1-3 days.

Happy shopping.