We Laughed, We Cried, We Learned a Valuable Lesson

I knew today was not going to go well. I knew this because Matteas woke up early, and by "early" I mean that he got less than 12 hours of sleep. I always feel torn about how to handle these days; do I lower expectations to avoid potential meltdowns, carry on as normal, bribe the boys into good behavior? Originally, I planned on laying low. But then I realized we were out of food. Really out. I used our last few pieces of bread to make toast for breakfast and had since been periodically throwing granola bars and string cheese at the boys whenever they made hungry noises, but then I got hungry too and the wilted half-carton of arugula did little to fill me up. The boys were fighting a lot and I debated whether it was the type of day that would be improved by an outing or if temperaments were so out of whack that we should not take ourselves out in public. I chose to risk an outing. I chose wrong. Our library books were due back, so I proposed a plan to the boys: hit the library, then PCC. Normally, they are excited about doing both of these things. It took us half an hour of whining and general bad behavior to make it to the car with everyone appropriately diapered and shod, but I foolishly pressed on. We got to the library and were greeted by the sound of 35 children's voices singing some idiotic rhyme led by the voice of a woman who clearly didn't like children. I picked out a few books for the boys while they checked out the fish in the giant tank, then I looked away for two seconds and looked up to see Matteas climbing over the back of a chair, a chair where the woman who clearly didn't like children had hung her jacket. He was climbing over the chair to get to the free-standing little puppet stage. So he could climb on it. I ran over to him, but the woman who now did not like my children specifically beat me to it. "No, no, NO," she said, motioning to Matteas to get off the chair, "the puppet stage is CLOSED." I grabbed Matteas and slunk over to the checkout, where I scanned our books and made haste out of the library. On the drive to PCC, it occurred to me that maybe trying to buy groceries would be a poor choice, so I proposed an alternate plan: we would splurge on prepared food, then head to the beach. The boys agreed it was a fine plan, and said they hoped it would be our turn to use the car cart at PCC(side note: why the f**k does PCC only have one of those carts? Worst idea EVER). I said that maybe it would be our turn, maybe not. We pull into the parking lot and lo! there's the car cart unattended! Score! The boys and I hustle over to it, but immediately Matteas starts whining for a baby cart. I have a rule about the baby carts: we only use them when Dad comes shopping with us. Two toddlers running around the grocery store with their own carts in opposite directions does not make for a productive shopping experience. I remind Matteas of this rule, then tell him that if he wants to go to the beach I need him to get in the car cart and help me drive. He obeys, but with a lot of whining. We hoof it over to the hot food section and I'm pleased to find a Mexican casserole type thing made with beef and cheese and corn tortillas, so I get a sample cup to let Jack try it. He loves it, but Matteas refuses to try it. He whines, loudly, about three more things in the next ten seconds. I tell him if he doesn't stop whining, we can't go to the beach. He pitches a full-on fit, so I grab our empty cart and head for the door. Jack knows we're not going to the beach now, so both boys are wailing as loud as they possibly can and everyone is staring at me. I don't even bother smiling in apology, I fix my eyes on the door and try not to look like I'm kidnapping the screaming children in my cart. We buckle in and head for home, the wailing now punctuated with cries of despair. Jack declares that this is the worst day ever, and then he lets me have it, the toddler equivalent of an F-bomb: "I hate you!" As soon as it says it, I realize my mistake. Well, actually, there are several of them. When Jack tells me that he hates me, it stings. And pisses me off, which tells me two things: I take parenting too personally, and also that it is way too important to me to have my kids like me. It's not my job to get them to like me, it's my job to teach them not to behave like hooligans in public places. We get home and I drag my still-weeping children into our cluttered, foodless house. I deposit Matteas in his bed, leave Jack in the living room, and then heave myself onto my bed to ponder what it is I could have done to incite the wrath of God so that He would punish me with such awful children. I run back over my life's offenses, and the words of the gym teacher from Mean Girls come to mind. He's trying to scare a room full of teenagers into celibacy: "If you have sex you WILL get pregnant and you WILL die." So maybe that's where I went wrong. But something in me says that there is, actually, something bigger that I missed, something important. I realize that I have failed to instill in them a sense of respect for others, the knowledge that they are not the only people in the library or the grocery store, that they need to consider what impact their behavior will have on the people around them. I gather the boys and have a talk with them. I explain that we all have jobs, even kids. Right now their jobs aren't super big, but it's still important that they do them well. When it comes to food, our whole family works together: Dad makes money to buy food with, Mom shops for it and cooks it, and the boys need to be well-behaved while Mom does the shopping. I ask them what kind of family they want to be, one that helps each other or one that doesn't care about each other, and they instantly say they want to be a helping kind of family. I tell them that we are going to try again, that I know they can do their job if they try hard, and that if they don't there will be severe consequences when we get home(besides still not having any food). They look relieved that I appear to be in charge again, and quietly climb into their car seats. At Trader Joe's(no way was I going back to PCC today) they are quiet and cooperative. A few things catch their eye, but I explain we're not shopping for those things today. I manage to fill the cart with the basics, plus a few exotic yogurts. I splurge on a bottle of all-purpose cleaner that smells like the woods because I will want to wash the counter tops with it, and people smile at my children and give them stickers. A lovely British woman waiting in line behind us chats with Matteas, and he informs her(correctly) that his birthday is "about August fourteenf." I had no idea he knew when his birthday was, and for a brief moment I see my son not as the wretched instrument of torture he has been to me all morning, but as a stranger might: tan, blond, charming. I realize that I need to create more opportunities for Matteas to be his best self, and more opportunities for me to notice him that way. When we get home, I tell the boys that I need help carrying in the groceries. I normally carry them all in myself because I can do it faster and also the bread won't be all squished, but we've already covered the negative consequences of bad behavior today and I want to shift the focus to the positive effects of good behavior. I hand Jack a bag full of light stuff and give Matteas the mini watermelon I bought, and they trudge happily up the stairs and into the house. I thank them for their help and commend their performance at Trader Joe's, and tell them we are going to make a chore chart so we can keep track of all the ways they contribute to our family. Jack immediately proposes that he and Matteas can share the job of putting the chickens away: Matteas can use the broom to herd the chickens into their coop and then Jack can close the door. I tell him I think that's a great idea, and start thinking about how long I need to wait before showing my face in PCC again.