Cheap.

I think his Daddy has been showing him too much YouTube.

Shopping is not my boy’s forte.  Old ladies (and a few young ones) were giving me dirty looks today.  Apparently I can’t control my child well enough for their sensitivities.  The problem today?  Balls.  F-ing balls.  I’m beginning to hate balls.  I want to write to Target and ask them to remove all balls…or items that can look like balls from a distance…what the heck, how about anything that is round…just take them away please.  Today I would not hand him a giant ball from the bin.  He made me regret it, though I am quite proud of myself for not giving in to his attempt to manipulate me into giving him his way.  I chose to ignore the fit, pushing the stroller through the gaping aisles, stopping to look blindly at items of interest, with my child screaming at the top of his bloody lungs, turning purple in the face, liquid running out of every hole in his face.  He was drenched in sweat, writhing in his seat, and yet, I smiled politely at the judgmental old ladies, pushing on.  I picked him up at one point, hoping to comfort, but when he raked his nails across my face, and kicked me in the legs, I wrestled him back into the stroller, strapping him in.  He didn’t like that very much.  And yet, I *think* I won the battle.  When he started sobbing sadly for, “Mamaaaaaaa,” I knew his anger was spent, and he knew he wouldn’t get his way.  I was able to pick him up at that point, and my sweet boy was back, the demon exorcised once more. 

“Dear God, please let me never forget what shopping with a toddler is like, so that I may look upon harried mothers and their screaming children with compassion, rather than disgust.  Amen.”