Hostage Negotiations

We were in the Maverick, making a pitstop on our 2 mile journey to Cinderella Park.  Mama needed a soda refill.  Yes it's come to this.  I'm one of those people.  I'm one step short of donning the holey sweat pants and Disney character t-shirt, but I've got the big mug.  My girlfriends staged a croc intervention last winter or else I'd be wearing my electric blue spinster makers as well. 

Ava perused the juice section while Brielle wailed on the candy aisle thoroughly put out that I told her we couldn't buy the $5.99 helicopter candy that the merchandising geniuses who truly must hate parents put right by the check-out in every store. 

Already people are giving me the looks.  Control your kid lady.  I desperately try to negotiate with the little tyrant.  "Look, look an airhead.  Let's buy the airhead.  Maybe you can ask Santa for the helicopter candy."  I pull out the Santa card all the time in hopes that they'll forget about all the items currently on the Santa list.  I'm pretty sure Ava's list comprises every infomercial item she's ever laid eyes on.  But Brielle, she doesn't get it.  She's not going to put off her need for this cool helicopter toy til December 25th, no sir and she's got the lungs to prove it. 

In my mind I'm thinking how to best handle the situation.  See it's tricky being a parent, especially when you care about appearances...parenting style appearances, I clearly don't care about appearances appearances given my penchant for comfortable ugly shoes. 

You can take the hard-arse approach and jerk the kid's arm and tear them bodily from the desired object that's suddenly become the center of the kid's entire universe.  This pleases the jerkiest people.  Way to go mom.  That kid's a brat and needs to be put in it's place, plus hearing a kid cry puckers my unused uterus even more.  Childless adults always assume they could do it way better.  If they had a kid they'd be a complete polite angel because of their theoretical brilliant parenting skills.  Yeah.  I don't care about those kind of people because they're living a complete fantasy life in which they can actually do whatever they WANT in their spare time.  But I'm not bitter.

Or you can take the nothing-ruffles-my-feathers approach.  Bend down and get on the kid's level and talk in your best Relief Society General President voice.  "Oh my little darling, I can see that you're distressed.  Maybe we can all go back to the stake house and tie a quilt for the less fortunate, er, I mean go back home and sing primary songs until our hearts overflow with scripture power."  The kindest people like this approach because it proves to them you won't beat your kid as soon as you're away from prying eyes unlike the last tactic. 

Or else you can do what I normally do.  I'm a people-pleaser so I use a mixture of the techniques.  I bend down and say menacingly so people can't hear, "I'm going to kick your butt if you don't put that back on the shelf."  Then in a loud voice I say, "That's enough.  We don't throw fits in the store or else mama's not going to take you into any more stores."  Firm but fair.  If someone gives me a sympathetic smile I shake my head and give a long-suffering shrug.  "She's not usually like this.  Must be tired."  She does this in every store and that's the truth.  Then I bend back down and give my best Mommy Dearest glare.  "No more Dora - ever!"  This results in a loud police siren wail and I have to pick her up and carry her to the register so I can purchase my soda so I can slip some gin in there to blunt the harsh realities of motherhood.  Well no.  I don't drink alcohol and to be quite honest soda is failing miserably at blunting anything except for my mental acuity.  But I digress. 

"Nope.  Nope.  No candy for you because you threw a fit," I say loudly while slipping the airhead onto the counter and daring the clerk to say a word about it.  The people behind me are praying my debit card isn't declined so they can be free of the howling child as soon as possible.  Fearing that I'm sounding too harsh I say, "We'll be at the park soon.  I'll push you in the swing.  You love that."  Best.  Parent.  Ever.  I turn and give my best lipstick-free smile to the person behind me.  "Just another day in paradise," I comment breezily as if I can handle anything and still have a sense of humor about it. 

The clerk bags up the candy and I try to keep my grip on the thrashing toddler underneath my plump arm like a football while also grabbing for the handle of the big mug like it's a lifeline in a stormy sea.  On the way out I apologize profusely, "Sorry.  Sorry about all that.  Let me just get out of your way.  Mommy's VERY disappointed in you." 

As soon as the child in question is ensconced in her flower print car seat I turn around and say, "Are you alright honey?  Mama's sorry.  Here's your treat.  We can watch Dora when we get home."  Then I turn around take a deep long pull on the straw of my mug and mutter to myself, "I need a REAL drink."