Whenever I see a child throwing a MAJOR tantrum in the grocery store, I try and give the parent the benefit of the doubt, because, really, we are all just biding time before it is our turn, and the hope is that, when that time comes, we’re not judged too harshly for it.
My time came today.
My first mistake was thinking that I could take two hungry boys to a warehouse store that only serves junk food during lunch hour with the intent of sharing a peaceful lunch.
Second mistake, not grabbing a cart.
We ordered our pizza, two pieces, one sliced, an extra plate, one drink and two cups for water, please. We received two pieces, neither of them sliced, a cup for a drink and ONE dixie cup for water. We agreed at the soda fountain that the coke, which should have been a root beer, but there was none, would be a treat, for dessert, when they finished their pizza, and that it would be shared.
No problem.
Or so they said.
Were there plastic knives? No. I’d just have to tear the pizza with my hands. I’m not above greasing my hands, that’s what wipes are for.
We sat down in the food court, at the last remaining table. It was covered in Pizza sauce. As I was cleaning it, Zip sat down on the child sized bench, flipped backward head over heels, and narrowly missed hitting his head on the concrete floor. He was unscathed but scared. He cried. All eyes were on us.
I moved him next to me.
Even though the older gentleman across from me continued to scowl, I thought we were in the clear until Zip would not relinquish the coke. No pizza was being consumed but the coke was, and it was not being shared, and apparently I was not to even to touch it, for when I did, Zip screamed.
The first time this happened I leaned my head in next to his ear and said, “We don’t scream in a restaurant. You may share this with us once you’ve eaten. Until then, it needs to stay on the table.”
He moved it dangerously close to the edge. I pushed it toward the center. He screamed.
I looked over at the scowling gentleman, raised my eyebrows and shrugged my shoulders.
He scoffed.
Once again Zip reached for the coke.
“If you do not eat first, you may not have the coke.”
“Gimme dis SODO, iz mine!” Zip growled.
“It needs to stay on the table until after lunch.”
Zip screamed.
I lifted him up and away from the table.
“I’m thinking we’re going to have to go if you can’t use your restaurant manners.”
“No, no! I can! Is O.K.”
“Really? You really think you can sit down and eat your lunch now?”
“Yes mama. Is O.K.”
“O.K. but the next time I have to talk to you about this we leave.”
Zip sat down. I glanced across at Tizzy who had drained the dixie cup of it’s few sips of water and was getting ready to make his way across the food court to refill it.
“Please sit down Tiz. I’ll help you fill it in a minute.”
Zip downed another big gulp of the coke.
“O.K. You guys, this isn’t working. I think we need to take this pizza to the car, finish it and come back.”
Zip, who was then in my arms started flailing and screaming. Tizzy let out a scream. He ran around the table, slapped my arm, and kicked my shin.
A bit shocked and awed, I looked up to find ALL eyes on us.
One child on my hip screaming, the other kicking at my feet screaming, myself irrationally gathering up plates of pizza and the damn coke in one hand, I reached for my purse handle – and it flew off my purse!
There was no longer ANY hope that I looked presentable.
I had no cart. I had no allies. I could just imagine the response if I dared to place my screaming children in one of the carts lined up next to the tables. I didn’t want anyone else screaming at me. So, I turned toward the door with children flailing, pizza careening, purse strap flapping, but there was NO business as usual at Costco. Everyone was watching to see what would happen next.
What happened next was Tizzy howling, “Don’t Touch ME! Take Your Hands Off Me!” and then he broke away and bolted outside. I did my best to chase him, which is not easy in a store where you are expected to “check out” at the door. He was running like a jack rabbit straight toward the parking lot.
I’d managed not to yell up until this point. He was not going to stop. Having my child run out into traffic, after the scene we’d just created was more than I could bare.
“TIZZY YOU STOP YOUR BODY RIGHT NOW! YOU ARE IN A PARKING LOT!”
He turned right. He was running for the mechanics shop.
“STOP!”
There was a man standing next to the garage as Tizzy ran by.
“Sir! Stop that child!”
The man just stood there.
I ditched the pizza. I put on my running shoes and I caught up to my child.
“Are you out of your mind?!”
I certainly was.
On the way to our car, my angel arrived.
“Darling child,” she said. “Whatever is the matter? Let me carry you so that your mother can get to her car.”
And she did. Children kicking and screaming, she helped me carry my boys to the car.
When we opened the door and she saw the cereal littering the floor, she lifted them into their carseat and said, “Come now into your lovely car, that a boy.”
We got them restrained. They were sobbing, but they couldn’t escape. I turned to her and said, “THANK YOU!”
My mother always said to me, if you see a woman struggling with her children, don’t judge her, offer a hand. Apparently my mother and this angel were cut from the same cloth.
If you turn on the T.V. tonight, and see a woman with two screaming boys and a broken purse on “Caught on Film,” just remember, now you know the REST of the story.
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