Kicking and Screaming

I had a watershed parenting moment this morning.  After church, the kids and I went for our weekly shopping trip to our neighborhood HEB.  I like HEB - their produce is fresh, and they also have samples around the store.  Free food is always a plus!  Another plus about HEB is their shopping carts shaped like race cars (although they are a bit tough to steer, and leave me the butt of several 'women driver' jokes around the store) and their free balloons at the entrance. 

I like the free balloons, as does Sammy.  He especially enjoys throwing the balloon up in the air to watch how it falls.  I appreciate the lesson in gravity, but after the third time I have to retrieve the balloon and hand it to him, it gets a bit old.  Especially on a crowded Sunday morning in HEB.  After he started up his game, I told him, "Sammy, I am warning you once - do not throw the balloon again.  I will not get it for you next time."  He responded, ever the optimist, "That's ok, Mommy, I can catch it if I throw it again."  "Sammy, just don't throw it again."

Several aisles later, when we were in the chip aisle, and therefore almost done with our shopping, Sammy decided to test my resolve.  And I'll be honest, as soon as that balloon hit the floor, I hesitated.  I hesitated for a brief second.  It's that age-old parenting dilemma, and it all boils down to an impulse taken in a split second.  Leave the balloon where it lies, and walk away, teaching Sammy that I mean what I say . . . which will end in a screaming fit by him . . . or pick up the balloon, thereby avoiding the screaming fit - and at the same time teaching him to disregard any words that come out of my mouth.

I wanted to take the easy way out.  I really did.  It would have been so easy to pick up the balloon, hand it to him, and press on in our shopping expedition.  Tear-free.  A woman with less resolve would have.  But, alas, I have resolve.  I have an iron will.  Or at least I hope that I do. 

I walked on.  Away from the balloon.  And the screaming started immediately.  As did the stares.  You know which ones I'm talking about.  I was THAT parent.  The one who obviously cannot control her little monster for just a brief excursion to the local grocery store.  And yet, I pressed on.  I asked Sammy to stop crying, I explained patiently to him that I told him I would not get the balloon if he dropped it again, and he chose not to listen.  It was like talking to a brick wall. 

As we turned down the frozen foods aisle, still attracting stares, and now some sheepish glances from other parents who've been there, Sammy chose that moment to swivel in his seat and smack my arm.  Seriously?  He hasn't hit me for not getting his way since he was 2.  OK, wait, he threw a screaming fit like this one in Sam's Wholesale Club a few weeks ago and hit me several times, but I honestly thought that was a one-time thing.  Apparently not. 

As I trudged on, I wondered how far down the parenting totem pole I would fall if I made a mad dash for the potato chip aisle and grabbed the lost balloon.  Just as I was about to, I noticed a little girl skipping out of the chip aisle with a huge smile on her face, and a big blue balloon in her hands.  There went my little rescue plan.  Lucky me.  Not.

I wanted to pick up both kids and make a mad dash for the exit now, shopping cart be damned, but we really needed the food.  I hadn't been to the grocery store the week before, and I didn't want us eating PB&J's all week long.  So I soldiered on to the laundry detergent aisle.  Where I noticed a potential saviour in an HEB red polo.  He was an older man, and he was giving me the eye.  Not the condemning eye, but the good for you eye.  I seized on it.  I leaned over to Sammy and said, "Sammy, oh my gosh.  Do you see that man over there?  You have got to stop crying right now - he's coming over here.  He looks really mad.  You have to stop!" 

And my saviour obliged.  He walked over, stood next to the cart with a disapproving frown, crossed his arms and said in a gruff voice, "What's going on over here?"  Sammy's eyes got huge, he wiped his nose with his sleeve, sniffed a bit and said, "NOTHING."  "OK, then," said the saviour, "keep it quiet."  Sammy's eyes got bigger, and he nodded.  As I turned to the man, my eyes welled up with gratitude, and I mouthed thank you.  He nodded in cameraderie and walked on.

Yes, I used a stranger to help me quiet my son.  But hey, it takes a village, right?  Right?  At least he stopped screaming . . . and we were able to check out, and eat for the week, with no more condemning stares from people who do not know - or have not yet experienced - the joys of children.  They're a joy, right?  Right.  I'll keep telling myself that.