This has happened to every parent at least once. It is something we all must go through, despite the fact that we will not earn a medal or badge or stripe to show for it. Actually, I think that would be a cool idea: parenting decorations and color bars. For each parenting battle you make it through alive, you earn a bar. I could imagine the one for successfully changing a diarrhea-filled diaper would be sort of a pea-soup green.
But the trial of which I speak is this: you must survive the mortifying shame of being the parent of the kid who is having a major meltdown in the grocery store.
This happened yesterday, on the way home.
Everything was fine when we got to the store. Michael announced that he wanted a cookie. No problem, we always get a cookie in the bakery – every store worth its salt offers a free cookie to little kids.
I did a little shopping on the way to the bakery, and Michael was being good. Got some potatoes, got some dill, picked up a couple of lemons. We were having Halibut with potatoes au Gratin tonight. Yummy.
Then we came up to the bakery. There was already another customer ahead of us, apparently having just made her choice of cakes. There was some discussion between her and the woman running the bakery; I couldn’t hear what it was, but it was lengthy.
Michael continued to ask if he could have a cookie, and I told him yes, but we must be patient. And he was patient.
Then the customer went around behind the counter with the bakery lady, apparently to discuss strategy. Then the icing bag came out, and the bakery lady drew in a deep breath, as if preparing for a major operation.
Michael asked me again for a cookie. This time, it was a little louder. “Yes, Michael. You may have a cookie. But we have to wait our turn. Can you be patient please?” “Yes, Daddoo. Patient.” I could tell his patience was waning. How long can a three-year old be expected to wait?
The other little plus was that Michael hasn’t been feeling good. I suspect he has a sore throat; he’s been snuffly lately and hasn’t slept well. He saw the doctor on Friday, who said that it looked like a mild virus that should clear up in a week or so.
Meanwhile, the bakery lady continued to write on top of this cake. I think the customer wanted the entire text of the United States Constitution written there. I’m sure that poor store employee is going to be out for the season after completing this tome.
We waited no less than twenty minutes total, as patiently as we could, for this procedure to wrap up. As finite as the surface of the cake was, it evidently had some sort of space-warp to it, as the lady continued writing more and more.
Finally, I told Michael that we’d come back.
He was surprisingly good with this. I think he trusts me, when I make a promise. I’d like to believe that. Either way, he took the news in stride, and we went straight over to the meat counter to pick out some Halibut.
It took no longer than 90 seconds to pick it out and have it wrapped up. I could see behind me that the long-winded-cake customer had received her box of cake and was walking away. Yay!
I thanked the meat clerk for the fish and we made an abrupt about-face to the bakery, where I could see another customer poking around looking at various things. I figured if I sidled up quickly we could jump in before he had a chance to decide.
No such luck, he’d chosen a carrot cake. The bakery lady pulled it out.
Then I heard this customer utter the dreaded phrase: “Would you mind writing on that…”
What the heck? Is this some kind of conspiracy? Is it “deny the ailing preschooler a cookie” day?
So the bakery lady whisked the cake to the back and pulled out the icing bag.
Enough was enough.
“Sorry, Michael, we can’t get a cookie today,” I told him, and we left. He whined a little, cried that he couldn’t have his cookie, but it didn’t last long. “I’ll give you a dozen cookies and a hand full of M&Ms when we get home. You’ll get your cookie,” I said. This mollified him a bit.
We wrapped up our shopping. I could tell he was tired but I wanted to check one more thing. I went into the electronics section to see whether they had the Alfred Hitchcock movie “Rear Window”. Scanning the shelves, I could see no copy of it, and turned to leave.
Then Michael caught sight of the cover of the DVD case for the movie “Me, Myself and Irene” — the one showing Jim Carrey’s leering face split down the middle.
“I want that one,” he said, pointing.
“Michael, you don’t know what that is.”
“I want it!” he said, whining.
“No, Michael. It’s not for us. It would be really boring to you,” I reasoned.
“I WAAAAAAAAAAAANT IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT!” he bawled, throwing his head back and going limp with frustration.
This was it. He’d reached critical mass.
My only hope was to exit the store quickly.
Every parent knows how this feels: you are the one in the store who has the kid who is wailing so loudly, everyone in the store can hear it.
And when you hear that sound, and it’s coming from some other part of the store, you think to yourself: “Boy, I’m glad that’s not my kid making that sound.” or “That poor parent.” or “Somebody must be very tired.” or “Why don’t they just give the kid what he wants?”
So there I am, wheeling my little banshee along, merrily trying to look nonchalant as I maneuver around the melons and steer past the strawberries toward the checkout line.
Now, one of my more amazing superpowers is that I can invariably pick whichever line in the supermarket is going to be the slowest one. I am utterly without peer in this ability. It doesn’t matter what is going on at the time, the laws of the universe twist and bend when I choose a particular register: THAT one is the one where there will suddenly be an old lady with fourteen thousand coupons and an indomitable will, or a lonely, single guy with a checkbook and a very chatty nature. Or there will be some problem with a particular item that isn’t scanning properly, or doesn’t come up on sale. Or the register tape will run out. In any case, time will slow to a crawl here, much as if this particular register was approaching the speed of light and becoming infinitely massive, warping time and space.
All the while, Michael has not relented in the slightest. And it has escalated beyond merely yelling and crying, he is now trying to worm his way out of the shopping cart’s seat. As if somehow when he accomplishes this, he will be free and all will be right. As his older and more experienced guide, I could assure him that he will only accomplish a face-plant on the vinyl floor right by the snickers bars. I could assure him of this, if only my voice could cut through the very palpable wall of sound he is emitting.
People are turning to look. Of course they are. Who wouldn’t? Some smiled indulgently. Some shook their heads. I could practically read their thoughts: “Why doesn’t he shut that kid up?” and “Jeez, I’d never let my child behave that way.” and “He shouldn’t bring the kid here if he’s going to be so loud.” I know there was at least a couple who were thinking “That poor guy. I know how he feels.”
Fortunately, God was pleased to allow me to be right next to the very much open and available “10 items or fewer” line, and was pleased to have limited my selections to only nine items.
The clerk cheerily asked me “How’s it going?”
“I’ve been better,” I said.
“Just want to get out?”
“Yup.”
And then, Michael began screaming for his mommy. “Mommy! I want mommy!”
A new panic arose in me. What if the powers that be here decided that maybe I was some freak stealing a poor innocent child from his mother?
My mind played out the scenario. Two large, uniformed security guards corner me and ask what the problem is, and that maybe this isn’t my kid. I could calmly say to them “As tempting as it is at the moment to simply turn him over to you, I have proof he’s mine,” and whip out the pictures in my wallet. I could also refer them to their own store security camera tapes, showing us entering only minutes earlier. And I could, once he calms down, simply ask Michael who I am.
But nothing of the sort happened. We steadily, but loudly, made our way to the van. I loaded Michael in, buckled him up, gave him his blankie, and loaded up the groceries.
We had a very loud trip home. He didn’t relent for a minute. I thought he might even konk out on the way, but no.
It wasn’t for another ten minutes after we reached home and Michael had had a chance to snuggle with his mommy that he finally calmed down. Oh, and mommy had to put on “Cars,” of course.
Mommy informed me right then what I might have done differently: just get a box of cookies right there in the bakery, open them up, and give him one. Buy them and take the rest home. Let him have the DVD he wanted, but don’t put it on the belt for purchase or even take it back the next day. Make sure he has his juice and his blankie with him. Talk to him calmly, help soothe him back down.
I’m just thankful that I never lost my cool throughout the ordeal. To me, that’s big progress.
And I may just limit my grocery store visits to times when Michael’s mommy is with me.