True story: I was at Kroger on Thursday, buying myself some chocolate because I deserved it.
Normally, I have at least one kid with me at the grocery store, frequently more, but on Thursday I was by myself. I was a little intoxicated from the high I get from the freedom of going through a checkout line solo, maybe humming happily to myself, dancing tiny dance steps that strangers wouldn’t notice unless they were paying close attention. Party of One at Lane Seven, if you will. Me-time at the grocery.
Then, a small child had some kind of full body melt-down at Lane Eight. Her spine turned to lava, maybe, and she screamed, and protested injustice. Frankly, I have no idea which of life’s flagrant wrongs she was facing. I have three small children, myself. Tantrums do not faze me. The mom handled it like a pro, and they were out of there in minutes, packing the food necessary to ward off another week of starvation.
My eyebrows did not rise. I didn’t even drop the tempo in the song I was singing. Kids have tantrums sometimes. It’s a thing.
But then the cashiers started talking.
“Did you SEE that? If any of my kids had done that, they wouldn’t have been able to sit down after!”
“Well, you can’t even correct your own kid these days or someone’ll call the cops.”
“That’s not true! You can whup ‘em, but you can’t beat ‘em. Kids need that.”
“The mom didn’t even react, did you see that?”
“How old do you think she was? Four? Five? Way too old to be acting like that.”
I’m not the quiet type, so I said, “Kids have tantrums sometimes. It’s a THING.” I said, “You can never tell what’s going on with other kids. You have no idea.”
Here’s the thing: I had three kids in two years, and sometimes, I took them all to the grocery store. My sense of shame, which was never particularly robust to begin with, was completely shattered by this experience. You name it, I’ve done it: Taken a kid, mid-tantrum, through the check-out line? Oh, weekly, most likely. Chased a kid down an aisle, who thinks this is actually a game of hide-and-seek? Definitely at least a few times, usually with another kid strapped to my back and a third’s wrist clutched in my hand.
No, you can’t eat the grapes! You have to wait to open that until we buy it. Come back here. If you run away, you go in the cart. Sit down. Wait. No, I’m paying. No, we’re not buying that. Or that. Or that. I know, it’s SUCH A BUMMER, and you’re really upset. You want the Chocolate Frosted Sugar Bombs*, and I’m buying oatmeal. I’m a monster.
My kids are generally fairly happy, loving little heathens, though not what I’d call “low maintenance”.
Maybe it’s my fault, I don’t know. But since I’ve always been the mom shushing her scattering brood through the exit doors, which is slightly distracting, I’d never gotten a chance to really listen to the chatter of the clerks.
Friends, it was so cruel. They wanted to hit that kid, someone else’s kid, whose social, medical, snack, and nap history was a compete unknown. They were judging that mother, who like all mothers, was probably doing the best she could.
I’m glad I didn’t hear them, then. I’m glad this mother didn’t hear them, now. And I’m glad I said something, though I wish I’d said more. Kids have tantrums sometimes. It’s a thing. And everyone who can piece together a decent recollection of that phase in their life should know it.
Good job, mom-of-random-screamer. This gig can be hard. Don’t listen to what people say.
*Chocolate Frosted Sugar Bombs was Calvin’s favorite cereal in Calvin and Hobbes. Only a genius like Bill
Watterson could have named something so perfectly.
