It's just a quick stop. I decide to carry the little one in on my hip; the bigger one in tow. Not a problem. After all, I only need two bags of potting soil, and the guys will help me get it in the van out back. So, I go in. No stroller. No snacks. No diapers. No drinks. No wipes.

Just the two little loves of my life.

It begins like a normal transaction. The little one perched on the left hip, nose running, gnawing on my shoulder. The bigger one is peering over the shelf of goodies and toys, oh so conveniently located at the checkout counter. I mull over the number of bags of potting soil to purchase. The little one squirms and twists. She is very interested to see what the bigger one is doing. I should be more aware of the warning signs.

Suddenly, I hear a beastly growl, and then an earth-shattering thump from the floor.

"I WANT ELMO!"

I turn, the little one turns, the cashier turns, the little old lady with blue hair, and the contractor, both in line behind me, turn; and there is the bigger one, flopping like a fish on the floor beside me.

What to do?

I look for insight from the little one. She only offers a pool of saliva and a little cackle. The cashier hands me my receipt. The blue-haired lady offers a look of disgust. And the contractor, well he just steps over the bigger one, her face now red as a tomato. I stand there with receipt in hand, little one on hip, and a loose grip on control of the situation.

I dig in. Ground myself. Secure the little one on my left hip with a boost. This will not be pretty.

I first choose to walk away. The possibility of abandonment may work. It does not.
I stand firm. Pretend I have a plan. The cashier now offers to take the little one. Teeth clenched. Lips curled up to my gums. I smile.

"No thank you."

The bigger one is now kicking, crying, shuttering. I shove the receipt in my shorts, for at this moment I realize I do not have any pockets, or a pocket book. I madly grab for a blur of pink sneakers. I connect. I snag and grab. I tug. I drag. The bigger one stops. She even stands up. I nab my prey, loop my right arm around her waist, tuck her under my arm, and haul her out of the store on my right hip to the van. The little one is still perched on my left hip, now drooling on my neck.

I set the little one in her car seat; stuff the bigger one in hers. I strap them down without speaking a word or looking either one of them in the eye. My wrath is silent, unspoken, and stiff as a good drink. We drive to the back of the store to pick up the potting soil.

Still as a full moon on the outside; I feel extremely self affirmed and celebratory on the inside. The corners of my lips attempt to lift. I stop. Instead I decide to look back at both of my darlings in the rear view mirror.

The little one is drooling; the bigger one is asleep.

Learn more about this author, Jennifer Kubinski.
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