Monday, December 19, 2011

Ah, the Holidays . . .


Ah, the holidays. 

They bring out the best in all of us, don’t they?

Hubby and I decided we’d take the boys shopping separately so they could each pick out a Christmas gift for their brothers.  We would split up and then meet back at home for dinner in one hour.  We decided on the division of labor using the same method we use for all important decisions in the BoyMommy household:

Rock, Paper, Scissors.

It was a one shot deal; none of this best-out-of-three nonsense.  I was SURE he was going throw “rock” so I threw “paper.”  Alas, he threw “scissors.” 

Crap.

So I took Medium and Small out to Walmart as Hubby said he was taking Large to Target. 

See?  I was set up for failure from the very beginning.

We got out of the car in the Walmart parking lot, which in my town is like going to Cuba from Florida.  One does not keep going once one arrives at the Florida Keys.  Oh no, one STOPS where the gettin's good.  Such is life in our town.  We don’t generally pass the Target because our destination is Walmart.  It’s just not done.  This is not to say that Walmart is a bad place.  It is not.  But OUR Walmart is a bad place, with long checkout lines, messy shelves, and the dregs of society perusing its aisles.

Anyhow, I am situating the boys in the cart when we hear a store patron yelling at the cars in front of him, “come on, people!  Learn to drive already!  Especially you up front!”  Tis the season, after all.

As we’re approaching the front doors . . .
Medium:  “who’s yelling?”
Mommy:  “oh, it’s just people in the parking lot.  All the classiest people in town shop here.”
Medium:  “Whas that mean?  Classy?”
Mommy:  “never mind.”
Medium:  "I don't get it."

By the time we got into the store, Medium had a gift in mind.  Lo and behold, we couldn’t find it in the Walmart.  I called Hubby to make we wouldn’t run into them if we ventured over to Target.  Guess what?  He was HOME already.  F*cker.

So we went to Target, where my first order of business was getting Small’s little legs into the leg holder in the cart so I could strap him down buckle him in.  We searched the aisles and found our intended gift, but there was only one left and it wasn’t the variety we wanted.  We asked for help and a nice gentleman checked the inventory and went searching for our choices.  We waited.  Small squirmed and screamed his new favorite phrase, “I wan gitout.”

Mommy:  "Look at Medium sitting nicely.  Don't you want to sit with Medium like a big boy?"
Small:  "I wan gitout."
Mommy:  "We're gonna sit.  We're not getting out right now."
Small:  "I wan gitout."
Mommy:  "I know you want to get out, but you need to sit on your bum."
Small:  "I wan gitout."  

video


By the time we checked out, Small was standing in the back of the cart where Medium had been riding.  Unfortunately, he was reaching for the gum/candy/ponytail holders/chapstick/batteries from the just-one-last-thing section of the checkout lane.  Once this ceased, he began emptying the contents of my purse onto the conveyor belt.  I put everything back into my purse and turned around to find him pushing all the buttons on the credit card swiper. 

I picked him up, but he, surprisingly enough, did not want to snuggle right now, so I had to hold him outwards.  He was on my hip with my arm in his armpits, swinging his legs and bucking so that he could free himself from my loving embrace.  I tried to maneuver the cart with one hand out into the parking lot, but of course, as soon as we stepped off the sidewalk and were in the middle of the street, the bag opened up and my purchases fell to the ground. 

Mommy:  "Ugh.  Are you kidding me?"

So I’ve got an unhappy toddler – ever tried to hold a cat who does NOT want to be held? – a heavy cart because Medium is just along for the ride, and a Fisher Price dump truck bouncing along in its cardboard package.  Luckily an older mommy came to my rescue and ran over to help me corral my belongings. 

D*mn you, rock paper scissors!  I’m SO picking rock next time.  If it doesn’t win, I’ll just beat Hubby over the head with it until I get my way.  Happy holidays, my @ss.  Where's my wine?

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Be nice, kids.