One of the biggest myths about being a Stay-At-Home-Mom (SAHM) is that you actually get to stay at home. Seriously, I spend the better part of my day behind the wheel of my car, shuttling us between swimming lessons at the YMCA, playdates and lunch trips to the zoo, a grocery run at La Walla Marta, drop offs at the post office/dry cleaner/library, and a side trip to the Teeter
for the stuff I forgot to get at Wal-Mart because I left my shopping list in the front seat of the car.

It’s really a six in one hand, half dozen in the other type of situation.

So, we are in the Teeter. The wine aisle, appropriately, when the the battle begins. Mo and Co are in the carriage, with Mo in the front and Co in the back, precariously wedged between two cartons of milk, assorted produce and some free range eggs. I had started to place a few things in the front seat with Mo as the back was getting kind of crowded. Evidently, Mo needs her space, as she began to toss items over her head and onto her sister. Bag of salad? Toss. Stick of deodorant? Toss. Cake mix? Toss.

When I busted her mid toss, I told her flat out, that if she did it again, she was going to have to get out of the carriage. Fate worse than death, to be removed from the coveted front seat. Because Co can’t quite wrap her mouth around the phrase, “May I sit in the front of the carriage, please?” she ends up in the back. Hey, if you call shotgun, you get it, shopping carriages being no exception.

So, we’re tooling down the wine aisle in search of something light and crisp for dinner with friends, when out of the corner of my eye, I see a box of rice arc in the air and land in the back. Faster than she could say, “Sorry, Mommy,” I had Mo out of the carriage, on the ground, and Co up in the front with the buckle snapped. I know Mo was surprised because it took her a minute to get her bearings and whether or not if the situation warranted some tears. In her estimation, it certainly did.

Now, I don’t ever want to be that mom, tearing into a child’s behind and yelling to be heard over the histrionics of their overwrought toddler. Nor do I want to be the one who docilely implores the child to be rationale and calm, with promises of fruit snacks and TV shows in the car on the way home. I just want to have her stop crying, finish my shopping and go home.

I get down to her level, very close to her face so that she’ll have to look at me, and speaking very quietly, I tell her that she needs to stop crying. I tell her that I told her she would have to get out if she threw anything else in the back of the cart. To which she replied, “AAAAAAAAAAAhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!! Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!! Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!! eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!” and started sobbing and snuffling and snotting and huffing.

Suddenly, it was like the light bulb materialized over my head and clicked on. My mother’s voice filled my head, saying, “When they act the worst, they need the love the most.”

I grabbed her up in a big, big, hug. And she stopped crying.

Just like that.

Stopped crying, laid her head on my shoulder, wrapped her legs around my waist and just kind of deflated into my chest. I could hear my mom applauding me and I thought, “I am finally getting the hang of this mothering thing”.

And we got some cookies on the way out. Even me.