Virginia Slim

Well, today was one of those days where Diego is lucky he is so damn cute. Public meltdowns are my least favorite flavor of melts. This was the kind where everyone smiles at me, sympathetically, and there are comments like "I remember those days," or "I don't miss that age," or my favorite, "He's hiding over there, mom."

Yes. After dragging a kicking, screaming, flailing, hair pulling, face scratching, slapping child upside down and over my shoulder out of the bookstore, he actually flipped out of my arms as I was trying to put him down on his feet (it should be noted he was also screaming, "want to walk by yourself" so I was trying to be accommodating) thrust himself backward with such force that the brick sidewalk probably cracked, if not the back of his head. Of course, the folks walking into the entrance, greeted by this lovely holiday sight, were clucking their teeth at me as if to scold me for being completely unable to control my child. If I say I wasn't concerned about his head at that moment will I come off as a terrible mother? Outwardly I did react with sympathy though my insides were seething with a sort of embarrassed rage. I had to hold the kid down between my legs as I fumbled for the car keys, because he tried to dart out into a busy parking lot when I was searching (why is there so much crap that feels like keys at the bottom of my bag on days like this) and then I had to intercept him when he tried to open the car door and hop out while I was getting in the front seat. I got a leg cramp trying to buckle him in the carseat. I didn't get angry. I didn't yell. I might have lectured a wee bit on that ride home, between his shrieking directives to turn the car around and go back to the store, but I did not let it get personal. I tried to breathe calmly and to sympathize with how he was feeling. I might have not felt something close to composure, or even compassion, but I did manage to fake it well. You see, back in the store I had made the mistake of bribing him (with chocolate milk) if his behavior was good, which it turned out not to be. So when I told him there would be no chocolate milk, he just went ballistic.

However, there was a moment of truth in the car. I said to him, "You know, you shouldn't behave nicely to get a treat. You should do it because it feels good in your --" I paused here, for effect, and then, before I could go on, Diego chocked back a sob in the backseat and spoke clearly. He said, "Your heart."

I felt like those women in the old Virginia Slims ads, remember? "You've come a long way, baby."