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The year was 2016. The place, WalMart.
I was half way through the check out process when the tantrum began.
My oldest son, 2 and ½ years at the time, was screeching and flailing in the seat of the shopping cart, while my newborn slept soundly in his car seat, within the cart’s basket.
Patrons around me looked with wide eyes at the dramatic scene. Enraged, my toddler threw off one shoe.
While I was retrieving the discarded footwear, he threw off the other.
Pretending not to notice, the checker scanned our items. Beep. Beep.
I put the first shoe back on, my son’s leg wriggling like a crocodile. He immediately kicked it off. I heard a chuckle from the line behind me. At least someone was enjoying this.
The checker announced my total, and I gratefully paid, the two tiny shoes held under one arm as I slid my card.
I tried to soothe my boy on the way to the parking lot. Shopping had taken longer than I’d hoped, and we were late for lunch, and nap.
I gave my guy what I meant as a reassuring hug as we walked. “I’m sorry you are hungry,” I told him, “let’s go home and have lunch.”
He was incited. “I DON’T WANT TO GO HOME!” He screamed, arms flailing like a muppet.
“Honey,” I reasoned, “we need to go home.”
“NO! I DON’T WANT TO LIVE AT HOME!”
“You don’t want to live at home?” The cart wheels squeaked against the pavement, and I could hear the baby stirring.
“I DON’T WANT TO LIVE AT HOME! I WANT TO LIVE AT WALMART!”
This particular refrain, which garnered many worried looks from passerby, was repeated with thunderous relish the rest of the way to the car.
It is fair to say this: that little boy was the most unreasonable human I had ever met.
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