It’s probably wrong that the only thing holding me back from knocking David’s lights out this afternoon at the grocery store was the thought that there may have been security cameras watching.
You would think a trip to a public place with an 11 year-old and an 8 year-old would be much less harrowing than the same trip with their younger brothers. One would think. That is, until they’re walking behind you, David putting Cameron into a headlock, Cameron claiming that he likes it. Cameron asking to buy fireworks, crazy straws, Lunchables, Kool-Aid, popsicles, Gatorade, a water bottle, and Dannon “Crush Cups.” Marketers, take note, you’ve found your sweet spot with him. Bravo.
Pretty soon we can’t go five feet without a comment and a giggle about hot dogs or wieners. Then singing along to the Muzak, adding words related to bodily functions into the lyrics. Next the cart gets slammed up against my heels. Once it progressed to the point where David was making farting noises as he walked, that’s when I grabbed both of them and stood them up against a wall of Charmin bath tissue, got in their faces, and told them that the only thing between my hand and the upside of their heads was the fear of jail time.
That seemed to work. But per the law of diminishing returns, they were back at it again by the time we got home. Does it ever stop with boys? Is it possible to go for more than ten minutes without mentioning poop? I need to find a way to break them. I know a retired Marine drill sergeant. I swear to God, I’m going to ask him how to do it.
© Jennifer Alys Windholz, 2011