As she attempted to get the bag away from her offspring, the mom offered a cheerleader’s smile and said sweetly, “Let’s not open those right now.”
“I want them,” the little boy began to wail. “I want them!”
“You’re sad because you can’t have them, aren’t you?” the mom smiled again.
Her child then stomped on her foot with his tennis shoe. “I said ‘I’m hungry!”
“Oh honey, why didn’t you tell Mommy that you were hungry?” The mom cooed. But as she tried again and failed again to take possession of the donuts, her kid once again turned into devil spawn.
“No!” The little cherub shrieked. “They’re mine!”
“Calm down, darling,” The mom whispered as she ran her hand over his hair.
“Stop it, stupid!” the little boy barked.
“That’s right, stupid,” I wanted to say to the mom. “Just stop it. You’re making a great big fool of yourself.”
I wanted to remind the moron mom that her job is to be in charge. Her job is to teach her child how to handle disappointment, how to listen and how to respect others. Obviously, she wasn’t even close to running the show since she could not successfully wrestle donuts from little Lucifer’s death grip.
She gave in, of course, and allowed the devil boy to gobble most of the donuts. Obviously, he was a smart little brat. He knew exactly how to get his way. But that wasn’t his fault. His mealy mouth mom and her lack of backbone were the reasons why her child will likely be in juvenile detention before he is old enough to multiply.
As the mom waited for her groceries to be bagged, I replayed the scene in my head, but with a different kind of parenting style.
When the kid reached for the donuts, the rather redneck mom’s strong voice would sound like it came right out of heaven. “What do you think you’re doing? Put those donuts back in the cart before I knock your head off.”
“I want them,” the little guy would wail.
“Look at me,” the strong mom would command. “Do I look like I care how much you want them? I said to put them back. Do it now.”
“No!” The little boy might shriek. “They’re mine!”
“Put the donuts back in the cart right this minute or you will never be allowed to eat another one until you’re 32 years old.”
If the brat child had the courage to respond with, “Stop it, stupid,” he would definitely see no other scenery except what was around the chair in a corner of the dining room. Quite possibly for the rest of the year.
And if he chose to stomp on the his mom’s foot, the unruly guy would likely hear something like, “Who knows where you got the idea that you could act like you haven’t got one lick of sense. But you are in serious trouble, young man. And I mean serious. So you’d better not move that foot again until it’s time to walk nicely out of the store.”
A former Southsider and an award-winning journalist and humor writer, Sherri Coner resides in southwest Florida. To learn about her books for women and to join her on Facebook, visit www.sherriconer.com. She also speaks to women’s groups.