The Walmart Apology

Walmart.

Love it, hate it, it is as American as apple pie and baseball.

It’s a place where all walks of life, all creeds and colors, can come together with a common goal. It’s a… a melting pot of sorts. The man, the woman, the child, the redneck, the businessman – all of us together. And Moms. Walmart is so good to moms.

As a mom, I can get my groceries, my wardrobe, my cleaning products, my cat food, my craft supplies, and my baby wipes in one place. THAT IS IMPORTANT.

Mothers, bless our hearts, spend every day taking care of the every need of those sweetest little beings called children (among other things). There are good days, when you cuddle up to your sleeping angel and sniff their soft, sweet skin and kiss their soft, sweet eyelashes, and you can hardly believe that something so incredibly wonderful could come from your very loins. AND THEN THERE ARE BAD DAYS.

Bad days are days when you count the minutes until you can tuck (strap) them into their beds, pray that they won’t get up once they are there, quietly collapse into fetal position on your living room floor to whimper (softly, so you won’t wake the demons children), and you can hardly believe that something so incredibly out of control could come from your cursed, wretched loins.

I had a bad day. And Walmart got to bear the brunt.

Someday I will write an apology letter to Walmart. It will say something like this:

Dear Walmart,

            I’m sorry my kids terrorize, vandalize, and otherwise violate your sacred halls. I’m sorry they pull things from shelves, break things, slobber on things, ride bicycles at high speeds through busy aisles, get lost multiple times in a single visit, run from your employees, and scream – really – loud – for – ages. I am sorry that they may have driven many potential customers out with their antics. I am sorry that no amount of purchases can make up for the pain I have caused you. And I’m really, really, really sorry for that one day.

That day was a doozy.

We were on our way home from a fun day at the state fair, all of us exhausted (as other battles had already been fought with the kids), and that man I’m married to wanted to stop once more to see if there was any good clearance on fishing gear. BAD. I. DEA.(IloveyouHoneyyouaremore
wonderfulthanwordscansayI’dnevertradeyouforanyoneexceptformaybe
ZacEfronbutyouknowthatalready)

My kids ran through their standard list of entertaining public displays:

Run amuck.

Scream and laugh.

Hide from Mom.

First potty break.

Hide from Dad.

Laugh some more.

Ride bikes.

Grab things from shelves. (We are not buying that. Put it back.)

Child #1 lost.

Child #2 dawdling while we try to get to the checkout.

Child #3 crying to be held.

Second potty break.

Repeat. Multiple times.

I could have handled it all. I usually do. But my final straw, the one that sent me completely and totally over the edge, was the dreaded moment in the checkout line.

Daddy Dearest wants milk to go with the cookies we are buying. He offers to take Little E with him while I stand in line with Big E and Sis. Sounds do-able.

FIVE SECONDS LATER… the disaster began.

Sis, perched in the basket of the cart, spills our little box of cookies all over the floor. Oh well, Walmart germs never hurt anyone. I scoop them up and put them back in the box with nary a crumb left behind. No big deal.

Suddenly, Big E needs to go potty. Again. I’m wedged between two families with full carts, and I don’t know how to get out or what to do. I send the tiny-bladdered child to the (nearby) bathroom alone (where he will hopefully not be abducted). After showing him where to go, I quickly return to Child #2, who is sitting in the grocery cart, eating cookies. Are you scared yet? It gets worse.

A moment passes as I wait for an old lady on a scooter cart (bless her) try to buy a protection plan for her new TV from the young, inexperienced cashier (bless her) with a large Walmart star sticker on her cheek (wth?). Suddenly, I hear a strange noise, like liquid hitting the floor. I glance around. I see the people behind me staring underneath my cart. I look at my daughter, sitting there, surrounded by the ruffles of her little skirt, eating cookies. I look at the floor. Puddle. I look at my daughter. I bend down and look below the cart. Waterfall steadily contributing to puddle. Coming from my child.

She didn’t even have the decency to tell me she had to pee. I’m sorry Walmart. So, so sorry.

TWO DAYS LATER, she peed in the toy aisle at Kmart. I picked her up. I walked away. 

Sorry Kmart.