I went to the grocery mart up the street from our house this morning with three children under the age of 4, two of whom can walk. What was I thinking?
I was thinking we were out of milk again, and I had nothing on the menu for supper. Desperate times call for desperate measures. Besides, how busy can they possibly be at 9AM on a Tuesday? Both my walkers (ages 2 & 3) got a little kiddie cart. Those are clearly not made for distraction. I was hoping that they would be slowed down, and would have less opportunity to add things to my cart when I wasn't looking. We didn't make it past the produce with our cart parade--their two little ones and my life-size. I made them return theirs after the third time they ran over my ankles. Nora crashed into an unsuspecting shopper on her way to return her cart. Tantrums ensued, but were cut short by the discovery that there was orange juice in my cart. Orange juice is quite the treat at our house, and is often used as a reward for good behavior.
As I made my way up and down the aisles of the Piggly Wiggly, Zane and Nora ran ahead of me. They weren't touching anything, causing anyone any trouble, or making any messes. Pretty good, in my book. They only rounded the corner out of my sight a couple times and promptly returned when I called them.
When my cart was sufficiently loaded down, I headed for the checkout lanes. The kids raced ahead. They stood in line with me as I unloaded my groceries, and Zane even lifted the four gallons of milk from the bottom rack of my shopping cart. It was when Nora spied this that the screaming started. She only wanted to help. She did. I have to tell myself that, otherwise I will creep upstairs while she is napping and strangle the life out of her. (I'd never be able to. The only time she is sweet and loveable is when she is asleep. I'd be too enchanted by her.) I cannot take the screaming. I will not take the screaming. I picked her up and put her in the cart, which was now devoid of items, as they were all on the conveyor belt.
Bev, the checkout lady, is our neighbor. She knows me. She knows my kids. She has a fairly good idea of what life at my house must be like. She smiled and told Bob the carryout boy to go get another cart. Nora continued sobbing and shrieking. Bob has no idea what life is like in my house. He started piling shopping bags in the cart with Nora, ignoring Bev. By this point the howls coming from beneath the Stove Top and green beans had reached maximum decibels. I ignored it, hoping she would stop. Zane ignored it. Bev ignored it. Bob tried to talk to her.
Reasoning with a 2 year old is fruitless. Reasoning with my pissed-off Asberger's 2 year old is like playing with a loaded pistol. Its gonna go off, you just have no idea when. It was the eggs, I think, that put her over the edge. The howls abruptly ceased. Two eggs came hurtling out of the cart, aimed right at Bob. I couldn't help but laugh. Bev smiled. Zane looked at me, uncertain of what his reaction should be.
I will say that Nora is quite the girly-girl. She likes pink. She likes dolls. She has to comb her hair before she leaves the house. I will not say that Nora throws like a girl, ever. That girl has got a helluva arm. Bob would probably say so, too. One egg broke on his shoulder. The other broke on his belt buckle. Two more followed, breaking on the floor.
I picked Nora up from beneath the groceries and set her upright on the floor. She wiped her tears on her sleeve. She smiled at Bev. She smiled at Bob. She smiled at me. "Mom," Zane said, "That guy's got egg on his face." He didn't know how right he was, until Bev sent him back to the dairy department to get us another dozen eggs.
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