by Kate Willoughby Hall, frantic, frustrated mama just tryin’ to get some groceries.
It had to be done.
As much as I dread the trip to the slam-packed WalMart for the weekend, we just had too many things on the list, and I needed to save a dime. As a supporter of small businesses it’s hard for me to do the big-box thing but goodness knows every penny must be watched. And so, with youngest child in tow, we sauntered in.
All I was trying to do was prevent us from becoming one of those images (particularly because I wasn’t showered and my kid was dressed a little like a circus act) on People of WalMart.
Just a few items and we’d be out the door, and surely since I had only 1/3 of my brood we should be out in no time.
No chance.
Kid 3 managed to throw her first crying fit approximately 60 seconds after we got into the door, pleading that she had to have one of those stuffed animals in the crane machine or she would surely die. Thank you, Toy Story for making said machines look so inviting that my children imagine their own live green dolls standing at the bottom waiting to be rescued chanting: The claw is my master. Using her request for impossible-to-grab-with-a-claw-toys as a reward for good behavior, I promised fifty cents for the claw game if she could be polite and keep it together while we picked up our items.
BAM! There’s the Halloween section, all green-and-black and five thousand three hundred sixty two bags of candy, all of which she wanted. And she is NOT wearing that scratchy Cinderella costume (that she begged me for last time we came) and she must have Ariel right now or she will break out in hives and need to be taken to the hospital. Kid 3 goes in cart.
People are starting to stare and smile knowingly in support as little beads of sweat form on my forehead. After all, the little princess is dressed in her raggedy-tutu from two years ago with rubber boots and leggings on, so surely she is just tired and not a spoiled child throwing a fit because she’s not getting her way, the nice WalMart onlookers must be thinking.
Alright we’ve made it past the holiday aisle and into housewares where a mattress pad must be purchased, since I melted the last waterproof one in the dryer. (Yes, I knew it was waterproof when I put it in the dryer and forgot to turn the knob to “fluff.” This is one of my space-cadet qualities that my husband uses for joke-making fodder in front of large crowds for entertainment.) Suddenly she squalls: Mama! I want ONE OF THOSE ANIMALS!
What animals? I asked.
YOU KNOW WHAT ANIMALS, MAMA! DON’T ACT LIKE YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT ANIMALS I’M TALKIN ‘BOUT!
Um, ok, yes those animals, honey well we don’t get any treats pitching a fit, so please act like a little lady.
WHY DON’T YOU KNOW WHAT ANIMALS I WANT IN THAT MACHINE?! WHY, MAMA?
Why had I let her back out of the cart. Why? Why? Sweat beads now became trickles down my temples, and people were really staring at the darling little pink princess with the red cheeks, snotty nose and evil piercing scream. Kid 3, stiff as a board, is placed gingerly in the cart and we head for the checkout aisle, only halfway through the list and garnering the attention of poor elderly customers with hearing aids.
Get me out of here without popping a gasket. Please dear Lord just let me get out of here with my sanity. And I promise I’ll be good. Really. And, if you see fit, can you hook her up with a little nap too? K Thanks big guy. You’re the best.
