Confessions of an Honest Mom: It Always Happens at The Mart

It was somewhere around the wrapping paper aisle that I began to ask myself "How did I wind up here? Why am I doing this to myself?"

 I'm not normally a confused person,  but at this second I am admittedly flustered and confused. It's like I walk through the doors of this place and my mind shuts off in order for my body to go into survival mode.

 

 It's hot in here. Is it just me, or is it hot in here? Why is it that every time I enter this building I feel like I'm suddenly in a pressure cooker? I am sweating now. Partly due to frustration, and partly due to the fact that I am wearing a beanie, fleece lined leggings, Uggs, and a down jacket. My feet are 1,000 degrees. My beanie itches. My ears are about to bleed from the incessant "Mom. Mom. Mom. MOM!"- That familiar assault of constant chatter from the tinies. Not just chatter. Its aggressive. As if the whole world hinges on their endless need to repeat my name (for no real reason, mind you.)
 I really want to take off my jacket. I feel claustrophobic. Of course, taking off my jacket is out of the question because I'm not wearing a bra. I share this information not to be lewd, but to illustrate how ill-prepared I was to even be there at all.
The Mart.

 The WAL MART.

 

 You'd think after the episode of disasters I shared with you before

that I'd never set foot in this abomination of desolation again. You would think.

But there is some small, defiant (and possibly stupid) part of me that just can't leave it as a failure. Some part of me, that says, "No! This is ridiculous! I can shop at Wal Mart. I only have two small children. I should be able to do this without wanting to stab my eyes out. I kept said children happy and quiet for 10+ hours yesterday while I de-Christmased, cleaned, and reorganized my entire house! I can do anything! Yes I can!"

Plus I needed a birthday card for my brother-in-law's birthday that evening, and if there's one thing I love, it's the perfect greeting card. Wal Mart happens to be the one stupid place that still carries my favorite line of greeting cards, so...there it was. Off I went.
 And the children wanted a donut, so I thought I'd be fun mommy today and let them get a donut on the way. It's all for the children. The precious children.

 

I would like to tell you that it started off not so bad, but that would be a lie. Not five minutes into my venture, both tiny tenders were already fighting with each other, whining at me, and changing their minds repeatedly about where exactly on the cart they would like to position themselves. One is hanging on the front and ignoring my requests to quit dragging their feet. The other one has moved from the front seat, to the big basket, to the side of the cart where he is now holding on and hanging backwards, like a dog sticking his face out the window of a car. It's fun for them. It's only fun for them.
It's amazing how simple things like getting out of a car, walking through a parking lot, and pushing a shopping cart can take so much longer when children are involved! I mean, unfathomably longer.

 

Now, my children are pretty good kids. They really are. I should probably start with that. But something about that place just awakens the beast in all of us.

 Bigger One starts to ask me for every single thing she sees. Little One is now too big to sit comfortably in a cart so he walks. The trouble there is that he only has two speeds: 1) running, or 2) trailing 20 paces behind me. Just far enough so that I'm constantly worried, and looking backward, urging him to keep up...and quit touching that...and don't put your hands in your mouth because they're dirty! All while trying to keep my voice low, of course, because nobody wants to be like the mom I told you about last time in The Mart who was shouting "Bobby Lee!" every 9 seconds. We all TRY not to be that mom.  We try valiantly. Sometimes we even succeed. Somewhere around aisle 4 a sweet elderly couple stops us to comment on Little One's red, curly, wild hair, and to say what handsome and well behaved children they are.

My heart swells with pride. I smile big and push on, forgetting for a second the fact they are not listening to my request to get off the cart and just walk beside me.

 

It's not until about 5 minutes later, that I start to really get frustrated- amid my struggle to push the cart with monkeys hanging off of it, to navigate my way through the crowd, and to balance the urge to read my shopping list while competing with the constant soundtrack of "Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom. Hey mom!"

I think I remember this stage with Bigger One. This is a phase, I think.
 Little One has made a sport out of saying my name. He doesn't even listen for my response. I do respond to him!
 "Mom." "Yes, son?"  "Mom." "What buddy?" "Mom." "What is it?" "Hey mom" "Hmm?" (I can't tell a lie. By this time I have tuned him out and I have re-read the same line of my shopping list 3 times without registering what it says.)
"MOM!"
 "WHAT Jaxon?!" I have now abandoned my quiet voice for my exasperated mommy voice.
"WHAT IS IT?... Yes! I will get you out of the cart if you promise to just be quiet for a second!"

 

This.
 This is the exact moment that I bump into an acquaintance who has just heard all of the back and forth and is now smiling ruefully at me. Not a close friend, who knows that I am not a horrible mother. Not a stranger who will proceed down the aisle without noticing me. An acquaintance who just caught me in a bad mommy moment using my exasperated mommy voice.
 You all have one. You know do.

 

Ah, yes, this is the life of an honest mom.
 One minute you're children are garnering the praise of perfect strangers in the dry goods aisle, only to be driving you bananas five minutes later in front of God and everyone in the wrapping paper aisle! It is what it is.
I smile cheerfully back at my acquaintance and have the presence of mind to ignore the tugging on my shirt long enough to make an acceptable amount of small talk.

The next 20 minutes are a lot of the same. Loud voices, lots of touching everything on every shelf, more sibling arguments, one of them is thirsty, one of them is cold, all of us are anxious to be done. I am fairly certain that nearby shoppers can hear our banter coming and going. I am past caring about that.

I'm definitely sweating now. All I want is to take off my jacket. There is a rogue down feather somewhere poking my neck. My cheeks are hot. I'm fairly certain that I'm blushing now too. My skin adds insult to injury by not only being pale and cancer-prone, but by frequently betraying me with a crimson red blush. Good Lord, I just want out of here.

But we press on.
As we pass a tragically pubescent young man in the produce section, Little One points and says loudly, "Oh mommy, look! That poor boy has red ouchies all over his face! What happened to him mommy?"
 I smile apologetically to the boy who undoubtedly heard this comment,  and remind my son it's not polite to point or to talk about people. Being only 4, he is confused by this social rule of thumb, so I spend the next couple minutes fumbling my way through an explanation of how God created everyone different, and so we all look different, and then feebly land on "It's not nice to point. It's just not."

 

 I scurry through the last few aisles, hopefully grabbing the items I need, but not really taking time to be sure. Bigger One has to go potty. There is no time for accuracy. Little One has ignored my instruction to walk next to me and is still mindlessly calling out to me from 20 paces behind but I have decided that I will not raise my voice or repeat myself again. No I will address it calmly in the car. Yes, that's what I'll do.

I make my way to the shortest line I can find, which is still considerably long. When I finally make it up to the register Bigger One has sensed that it's time to fall in line and is waiting quietly while Little One keeps trying to wedge his body in the small space between the cart and the rounder of grocery bags. I tell him to come around the other side. I swipe my card. He's still wedging. I tell him to stop, look at my eyes, listen, and obey.
 And then my sweet, precious, curly haired baby narrows his eyes at me and makes a face.
 This is new.
 Did he just?...Was that a dirty look?
 Oh hellllllll no.
 I hold his gaze as if to say "This is not over". He instantly wavers, realizing he has now gone too far, so he follows it up with a goofy smile for good measure. Nice trick. I wonder where he learned that.

As we walk to the bathroom I send up a quick prayer of thankfulness that Bigger One is now old enough to handle this small business on her own.
 I kneel down to Tiny's level and quietly tell him how sad Mommy is that he was not listening and obeying. I remind him that he is a big boy and he knows how to behave in a store. We discuss consequences. His tiny shoulders slump and he says,
 "I'm sorry mommy. Will you forgive me?"
And I do. I do forgive him!
I love the little boogar beyond comprehension. I tell him I will always, always forgive, but there is a benefit in obeying the first time, above disobeying and then having to ask forgiveness. I think he understands this, but I can't be sure, on account of his age and the fact that he is now distracted with a hangnail.

I gulp the fresh cold air as we exit the building and wonder how long I'll wait before trying this again. As I've said before, I by no means consider myself to be better than anyone who shops at The Mart. I'm sure I will be back at some point.
But I will never again underestimate the power of The Mart.

It isn't until I'm in the car, all harmony restored, and halfway home that I realize that I forgot entirely to get the greeting card I went there for.