All this time, I'd thought I had one of those kids. You know the ones--well behaved, charming, always listen to their mothers. Oh sure, he had his moments, but they were usually accompanied by ginormous molars, or stomach viruses, and thus were not really my boy having a meltdown.
And then came yesterday.
It began innocently enough. A morning of shopping--the farmer's market (and yes, if you read yesterday's post, I did indeed eat me some caramels) and then the grocery store to pick up the stuff we couldn't find at the farmer's market.
Wiggle Man was perfectly content all through the farmer's market. I bought him a banana. Then smugly thought how nice it was to have a child who prefers fruit. (Not that he knows any different at his age.)
Oh, but then. Then we hit the grocery store. We did ok at first. But then. Oh, then. My Wiggle Man saw them. The shopping carts with the cars/trucks/firetrucks on the front for kids to ride in.
Only once have I let him ride in one, and it was the worst shopping trip. Those suckers are hard to drive! They do not corner well, let me tell you.
Well, my sister-in-law was with me, so she took Wiggle Man for a walk around the store, hoping to distract him. Yeah...he tried to get into a car with another little girl.
She brought him back to me. We tried to avoid aisle with firetruck shopping carts.
I'm telling you--every child in the store must have had one. Except my child, of course. And that's when the blood-curdling, full on screaming began.
And that, coincidentally, is when I realised my son is just like every other child. And I'm just like every other mother.
And that's ok.