Anatomy of a meltdown, or: a play-by-play account of why we won't be going back to Scolari's anytime soon

Hey Jakey,

Looks like we'll be shopping at Raley's for a while after what happened yesterday. Here... let me tell you about it!

-- I should've noticed that something was quietly raging, raging inside you when you refused to get in the car without your sunglasses. After 10 minutes of turning the house upside down and not finding them, you were partially placated with a pair of your daddy's sunglasses.

-- During the ride over, I was thinking to myself how well-behaved you have been lately, and maybe this will be the day that you will walk with me through the store, rather than riding in the cart.

-- Today is not that day. After aggressively shouting "Hi! Hi!" to everyone walking out of the store, you leap into my arms to be put in the cart.

-- I have a short list of things to buy. Bread, veggies, milk. Unfortunately, the first item is in the same aisle as the greeting cards and filled balloons. Unfortunately, one of the balloons bumping softly against the ceiling features Lightning McQueen. Unfortunately, you spy it from a hundred yards away.

-- "MaPwee! MaPwee!" At first you are giddily excited. Your excitement turns to worry as we fly down the aisle and grab a loaf of bread, any loaf of bread.

-- "MaPwee? MaPwee?" We grab some vegetables for tonight's chicken curry, and you grow more and more agitated. I start us towards the other end of the store for milk, but you're having none of it. You're kicking me now, and trying to stand up in the seat.

-- I am torn. I have a basket full of groceries. I can rush around trying to return the items to their shelves, and just leave. Or I can buy you the balloon. We return to the balloon aisle, I hand the damned thing to you, and see the tag. It is a $4 dollar balloon.

-- You quiet down. I walk slowly around the store, seething. I do not want to buy a $4 Lightning McQueen balloon that says "Happy Birthday Dad" on it. I grab the last item on our list -- milk -- and start towards the registers.

-- In hindsight, I realize now that you were in hyper-sensitive OCD mode before we even left the house. But at the time, I was surprised and angry to see you starting to get twitchy over yet another item on a shelf. This time I didn't even know what it was you wanted, and you weren't telling me, just getting very vocal and very loud.

-- I thought to myself: y'know, if he's going to be unpleasant no matter what I do, then I might as well return the balloon to it's spot by the cards, abandon the cart, and leave.

-- I yank the balloon out your hand (which also separates the balloon from its ribbon) and it floats, tail-less, toward the ceiling. I prepare myself for DefCon 4.

-- You begin to scream. But I think we may be all right, as we are close to an exit. I race the cart up to the doors and try to lift you out of the seat. But you lock your knees together, making it impossible to extract you from the cart.

-- All I want to do is leave the store. But I cannot pry you out of the cart, and I cannot exit with a cart full of groceries. I jam your screaming face into my bosom and head for the shortest check-out line.

-- It's a Saturday morning, so the place is pretty full. I find a line with two people in it. Your wailing continues.

-- There's an old man in line at an adjacent checkstand. I get into a staring contest with him. Just as I am about to blurt out, "Can I fucking HELP you?!?!?!?" he turns away, shaking his head. (I still think about this and want to take a swing at something, anything).

-- The kind lady in line in front of us has three grade-school kids of her own with her. She flashes me sympathetic smiles and tries to wave at you. Your wailing continues.

-- It's finally my turn. The old man in the other line leans down and whispers something to his wife, who turns around, affords us a withering glance, before she too turns away, shaking her head. Who are these people and why are they such twats? Honestly.

-- The checker has the stones to actually ask me how I'm doing. Wow. I manage a tight-lipped smile and a "Been better. Thanks." Your wailing continues.

-- Finally! We are paid up and running out the door.

-- The lady and her kids from the checkout line are parked near us. As I'm trying to pry you out of the cart and put the groceries in the car, she sends her three girls over with a small toy to try and appease you. You grab it out of the one girl's hand and fling it across the parking lot. I am mortified. I apologize profusely and the girls just kinda hang their heads and walk away.

-- As they drive away, the lady slows and rolls down her window, telling me that she's sorry and hopes things get better. I just about die with gratitude.

-- After we're in the car, finally, I actually HOPE that you will continue your histrionics until we get home, as daddy will never believe this tale if I don't have your screams as proof. I am not disappointed.

-- Daddy gives you a time-out in your room and a subsequent swat on the butt when you try to kick your door down.

--After about 10 minutes, you fall asleep.

Oh my God, sweetie. You're *three*... so tantrums happen. I understand that. But I thought you and I were exempt from these all-out nuclear implosions, simply because I've already learned my lessons and no longer roll my eyes at other kids' behavior, exhibit endless patience with other snotty, ill-behaved children, and have acquired yogi-like empathy for all other moms who venture out of the house with their unbalanced kids. But I guess you didn't get that memo.

Love you, really! I actually felt remorse when I looked down at my empty cart at Raley's the next day (of course I had forgotten to buy something for my curry...) and didn't see you there.