Trader Joe's- A Different Kind Of Parenting

God bless those kind people who think they are helping a poor stressed and frazzled woman in need, when her kids are out of control.

I took Katie and Tommy to Trader Joe's to get something to take to her Girl Scout dinner this evening. Already, I know I will be consuming most, if not all, of my Weight Watcher flex points. Katie's troop is very diverse, and when there are homemade party foods from all around the world, not much I can do to stop that freight train. So I get our mini tacos (because it has already been 'that' kind of a day), and Tommy spots Mr. Mooyagi. When you find Mr. Mooyagi, who is a stuffed cow, you take him to the manager and you get a free fruit leather. Tommy knows this, as he seems to have an eagle eye for his pal, and quite enjoys the fruit "lebber". However, this time, Tommy decided he wanted his bovine pal to come home with us, and when I finally pried the cow out of his tightly curled fingers, he let out a wail like you have never heard. This was followed by a steady stream of screams and growls.

I thanked the nice crew member for the fruit leather, which I promptly slid into my purse. I handled this tantrum the same way I handle all of them, which is to clear all available space within Tommy's reach and ignore his antics. The wonderful crew at TJs, however, decided to take matters into their own hands.

One came by and patted him on the head. He did not appreciate this at all. Then our cashier offered him a balloon. Tommy has never uttered the f bomb, but I am sure what he did say was his own version of it. Then came the manager, with mini Mooyagi. Some little stuffed cow, probably left behind in the store by some kid who had cholera or mumps or some other dreaded illness. I was just about to say no thanks, when Tommy abruptly stopped his drama, snot running down his face, and brightly smiled and said "Oh, thank you SO MUCH!"

Who am I to question the fine folks at Trader Joe's? Clearly they are experts. I worked there, yet I do not recall receiving such fine child shutting-up training. I was instantly over any embarrassment, or any ideals I may have had about how to handle a tantrum. We were good. And we left with a balloon to boot. Hey, I didn't reward that behavior, that is all on them! What could I have done?

So on the way home I had a seven point cookie, and Tommy started chanting "Want a lebber. Want a lebber. Want a lebber."

Off to the train station...