February 6, 2008

I’m THAT Mom

When I was in college, I did a lot of babysitting for my boss. I worked at a flower shop and he was the owner. He had gone through a nasty divorce and had been left with his two children, ages 6 and 4 at the time. Obviously traumatized by what had happened, he spent a lot of time going out with friends and trying to pick up his life in the only way he knew how. I was the babysitter that allowed him to do this.

It was quite common for me to spend my Friday nights picking his children up from day care and after care before taking them home for a long night that wouldn’t end for me until around 2 a.m. It made it an even longer night because the kids also had "issues."

One night, I decided to take the kids to Blockbuster to pick out some movies to help us all survive the long haul of a night that was to come. The 4-year old little boy decided he wanted a spider man poster. I told him we were renting movies, not buying posters and a temper tantrum ensued. His sister thought it was wildly funny and I was horrified.

There we were in Blockbuster, one little girl laughing so hard she was in stitches and one little boy flailing all around the floor, screaming "I hate you" and "You’re so mean" at me as if I had just attempted to remove all his toenails or something. He was screaming, spitting and flailing so much so that there was absolutely nothing for me to do.

I was an experienced babysitter, but this was all new to me. I tried to pick him up and he kicked me so hard in the shin that I thought I’d pass out from the pain. I tried to nicely tell him to get up. That didn’t work. I tried to more firmly tell him to get up and that didn’t work. Finally, I tossed the movies we were going to rent on a nearby counter, grabbed him off the floor despite the assault my body took, and told him we were leaving and there would be no movies tonight. He continued to hit me and scream at me until he was buckled into the car.

I had two thoughts while standing in Blockbuster, noticing everyone noticing me. The first was that I was never having kids. The second was horror at the fact that these people all probably assumed he was my child. He looked so much like me. He had blonde hair and blue eyes and a slim build. It was awful.

Fast forward to the summer of 2005.

I am extremely pregnant with Lil C and we’re at the mall getting Big I’s pictures taken. We go to The Picture People and when the prints are ready they frame a big one of Big I. We bought the pose, but not that actual framed version. Big I can’t stand the idea of leaving a picture of herself behind in the store. She refuses to leave the store and throws a royal temper tantrum. We walk out and leave her behind. She comes running after us and throws herself on the mall floor, screaming, drooling, flailing.

It’s a Friday night and it’s a virtual high school class reunion for me at the mall. EVERYONE I know and haven’t seen in 10 years is there with their extremely well-behaved kids. Any other time, I would have been that put-together parent with the well-behaved kid, but not tonight.

I get so irritated with Big I, that at 7 months pregnant, I hoist her up, head out the front and feet out the back and start carrying her through the mall. She kicks her way down and I put her in a chair in the center of the mall. Holding her there, I quietly and calmly tell her that her behavior is not acceptable, that there are going to be serious consequences and that she better knock it off and now. An old lady sitting nearby leans over with a chocolate bar and says "Here, give this to her."

Infuriated with my child and the whole situation, I spit fire at this woman and tell her "Does this look like a child who deserves a chocolate bar to you? NO THANK YOU!" I pick my battles, sure, every parent does. But with one like this, there is no appeasing the kid or else your future authority is destroyed. Chocolate after a colossal temper tantrum? I think not.

Mr. BBM takes over when it’s clear my firm tone isn’t getting anywhere and we head towards the exit. She is screaming and thrashing and all I could think is, "Thank God I have pictures of her in my wallet so that if mall security stops us and thinks we’re kidnapping her, I can prove she’s mine." Big I lost TV. She went straight to her room and bed, and lost all DVD privileges in the car too.

Mr. BBM and I don’t mess around.

Fast forward to yesterday.

This was my first time to the grocery store with the girls since before my surgery. I went in for just a few items and figured I could handle it. The girls were being great. Both were riding in the truck cart and getting along just fine. It was when I stopped to talk to a relative that Lil C decided to raise hell.

She climbed out of the cart and starting grabbing hoards of Valentine’s candy that she was shoveling into the truck as fast as she could. I put them back and she threw a fit and grabbed more. The kid has a killer grip.

The grocery store won’t need to clean their floors anytime soon because Lil C did it for them. Break-dancing on the grocery store floor, she screamed and flailed, cried and yelled. Big I thought it was hysterical. Suddenly, I’m right back in Blockbuster, except this kid doesn’t just resemble me. She is mini ME!

The grocery store was packed with the after-school crowd and I was mortified. No matter what kind of person you are, you can’t help but notice an unruly toddler. You can’t help but pass a bit of judgment on the nearby parent who is obviously not controlling the situation. I might as well have been wearing a giant scarlet letter on my chest.

I grabbed the cart and walked away from her and told her we were leaving. She quickly changed her attitude and climbed back in the cart. Before I even stopped for fruit, she jumped out of the still moving cart, ran to the flower section of the store and picked up a ceramic pot.

The kid throws everything. She will frequently grab one of Big I’s toys and chuck it down the stairs just to be a stinker. I panicked.

Walking slowly wasn’t going to do the trick. I tried to lightly jog and the pain shot through my knee so badly it made me stop in my tracks and gasp. I limped over to Lil C and ripped the pot out of her hand as she giggled and then started to throw another fit.

Head out the front, feet out the back, we made our way to the check-out line. I would have just left the cart but I had absolutely nothing to make for dinner at home. She realized she wasn’t getting anywhere. She calmed down and asked to be put back in the truck. In the truck she went.

Out in the parking lot, she refused to get out of the truck. She knows I’m slow and can’t bend like I used to be able to do, so she kept scooting from one side of the truck to the other as soon as I would get to that side. I couldn’t exactly leave her in the cart in the parking lot.

Luckily, my relative came out, stuck his hand in the one side and she immediately went to me. I loaded that stinker in the car and told her we’re not leaving the house again until she’s three, or possibly 13. I haven’t decided yet, but one thing is for sure: I’ll be in isolation with a 2-year old. Send help.