An Open Letter to the Shoppers and Employees of Trader Joe's at 11:45 Yesterday Morning.

Yes. The child who is 15 steps behind me, screaming, red-eyed, nose running down his face, yelling "MOM!! MOM!!!MOM!!!" The one that I'm ignoring? Yes, he's mine.

You might be thinking that based on the shrillness of his screams, I probably stabbed him in the eye with a Trader Joe's artisan baguette or held his hand down on the hot plate used to keep the samples of "Spaghetti with Tuscan Marinara Sauce" warm.  But alas, no. He's screaming at a decibel that is potentially damaging to the human ear canal because he asked for cheese puffs and I said, "no." I know. I'm clearly a total bitch.

First and foremost, I would like to apologize to the 25-35 of you who thought you could just zip in and out of good ole TJ's without wanting to gouge your own eyes out with spoons.  I had no idea that something as benign cheese puffs (or lack thereof, as the case may be) would cause him to cry so intensely, he nearly vomited on the floor. In retrospect, having known what I know now, I probably would have just bought the stupid things and picked a different battle. But I said no, and if there is one thing I know to be true, you've gotta follow through. This is exactly why I never say, "We are leaving if you do that one more time," if we are at an awesome party but I always say it when we are at a super lame party and then keep my fingers crossed.

But think of it this way, good people of Trader Joe's! How special it is that we ALL got to participate in one of my sons worst tantrums to date together! Like one big happy family of complete strangers! For a few of you, I have some special thoughts to share.  

To everyone I didn't see:

Yup. He's loud. And we are in a grocery store! Picture that volume in a living room hardly the size of the wine aisle, which you can imagine I frequent often. Despite what you think you heard, I swear I was not killing my son. I wasn't even touching him or causing him any physical pain at all. Although I am sure if you'd asked him, he'd tell you that nothing hurts more than the cheese puff shaped hole I ripped out of his heart.

To the Trader Joe's employee who tried to "help":

Please shut up. Because you are not helping. Far from it actually.

I mean, I get it. You and the rest if the county can hear my son yelling, "BUT PLEASE MOM!!! JUST ONE BAG!!!! JUST ONE BAAAAAAG!!!"  But the LAST thing I needed was your voice coming from behind my shoulder to say "Aw, come on, mom. Just one more bag?"

Are. You. Effing. Serious.

What my son asked for was a bag of cheese puffs the size of his torso and I said no. And so help me God, I will beat you to death with this bag of cheese puffs that my son is now refusing to re-shelve because he thinks that maybe, maybe I'll give in if he screams so loud my ears bleed. But this mama don't negotiate with three year old terrorists or listen to "advice" from strangers. 

To the lady who gave me the stink eye:

I see you there. Silently judging me. I can only imagine what you are thinking. "Why can't she get a handle on that child?" Or "She clearly has lost control." Or "She needs to take that boy home."

First of all, I have a cart full of groceries and only so much time in my day to go shopping so I can't just "take him home." Now, leave him here? That thought definitely crossed my mind. But, I get it, I've been you. I remember a time before I had children and thought for sure I had all the answers. I would never let a child behave like that in public. But then I had that child and while the look on your face is trying to make sure I know that you think I'm doing something wrong, I ask you this: do you know my child? Because if you knew my child, you would know that trying to do anything to "fix" this situation as the marbles are falling out of his brain and rolling all over the floor and his thrashing around is registering on the Richter scale, will not only do nothing to make him stop, but will actually make it worse. What you don't realize is that for my son, doing not much at all in this moment is what is actually going to help. Because he is out of his head right now. "Unreachable," as we like to call it. I have to stay zen in order for him to find his again. Yes, I am horribly embarrassed and dying a little inside with every wail but I actually do know what I am doing here. This ain't my first rodeo, sweetie. So go back to picking out which flavor of hummus you are going to try today and keep eyes on your own paper.

To the employee behind the sample counter:

To you I say, thank you. You saw the whole transaction go down and I have now walked past your counter with my screaming son in tow two times. You made eye contact with me, nodded and simply said, "Don't give in, Mama." YES!! You got it. You knew what I was doing here and validated my choice and encouraged me to stay strong. You were on my team and I needed someone on my team because dragging my flailing child behind me with one arm while I push the cart with the other arm is hard work, especially when there was no one to tap me out.

To the woman behind me in line who decided to change lanes:

Good call. My best guess is we are approximately T minus 30 seconds before this little psycho's head starts spinning around. Also, you seem nice. And I ask you this, with just the slightest whisper of desperation, please take me with you?