Swearing with toddlers

I took the girls shopping with me yesterday afternoon. I generally try to avoid doing that, for several reasons. Not only do they annoy me in the store, but they want everything they see. We've developed a system where they each get to choose one thing in the store that's not on the list. It works for us all - they get a treat, I get to do my shopping without 45 meltdowns.

Yesterday, they decided in the parking lot that they wanted marshmallows and gummi bears. I love it when they do that, because I don't have to wander around and let them decide what to choose when we're inside. It's in the door, get the food, get the goodies and out.

I hate grocery shopping.

So we got the food, got the goodies and headed for the register. On the way to pay, we passed the bakery. I don't stop in the bakery. I'd like to think it's because of my awesome sense of willpower that helps me resist the pastries and breads. The truth is, I don't want to have yet another conversation about why we aren't buying a birthday cake. It usually starts with, "Mommmmmyyy I want that cake!" That statement is followed by frantic pointing and squealing, which is followed by a discussion of when each and every family members' birthdays are. It's just easier to avoid going anywhere near the evil cake section.

This time, they had a display set up in the aisle with clear clamshell boxes full of cookies. These weren't your garden-variety chocolate chip cookies. They were beautifully molded butterfly cookies, sprinkled in pink and yellow sugars. Both girls stopped squabbling with each other mid-sentence to ooh and ahh over the cookies.

I was oohing and ahhing over the cookies. They sure were pretty.

Of course they asked. Of course I didn't say no. Who can pass up sugar coated butterflies?

We took our treasure with us to the register. I loaded up the belt and waited for the cashier to ring everything up. Damn, did it take her forever to ring up my stuff. I can always tell which cashiers have kids, because they do it in record time. They know that the shelf of stuff next to the register is way too tempting for a three year old. So anyway, this lady was slllloooooowwwww. Molly was standing quietly, pulling in and out the little table thing that folds into the side of the conveyor belt area.

"Mommy, what's this?"

"It's for people in wheelchairs to use when they need to write a check."

"Can I have a pen?"

Hell no, you can't have a pen. Are you kidding me? The last time I gave one of the girls a pen in the store to entertain them, I had to buy three boxes of Triscuits with pretty pictures on them because I turned my back to look at vanilla wafers. No pens allowed.

"No, Molly, that's only for handicapped people to use."

"Bryan said I'm handicapped." Oh, no. No she did not just say that. The lady behind me in line stifled a chuckle, and the cashier stopped what she was doing to study my daughter for a minute. No, please don't stop. Scan. SCAN!

Sometimes the best thing to do is ignore comments like that in public. I rolled my eyes and got out my wallet. Bryan will pay for that one. Thankfully, her attention refocused almost instantly on the cookies that were moving past her on the belt. "Ohohohmommycanwehavecookiesinthecar? Canwepleasepleasepleasepleaseplease?" Yes, anything to shut you up. Anything.

Finally free from the stares of people clearly trying to gauge the level of my daughter's non-existent disability, we loaded up the car. I opened the cookies to give them each one, and realized I had made a mistake.

The backs of the cookies were dipped in chocolate. Uh-oh.

Being a mom of my word, I made a mental note to check for stain remover when I got home, and I handed over the cookies. Abigail is one of those kids that can get sticky-icky eating a cracker, so I mentally braced myself for what would happen with a chocolate dipped cookie. Heading for home, resigned to my fate, I got about a half a mile down the road before I heard a gasp from the backseat.

"Holy crabby patties, there's chocolate everywhere!"

I'm not sure if my reaction came from the shock of hearing my tiny daughter screaming a sort-of obscenity, or if it came from the fear of what "everywhere" meant, but I instantly pulled over and turned around to look.

Holy crabby patties, indeed. If you look up "everywhere" in the toddler dictionary, you'll find the following definition:

eve·ry·where (ev-wee-wawe) :
1. on or in every possible surface, nook, cranny or orifice within a one block radius of a toddler
2. spread so thoroughly that you'll be finding bits of it for the next decade
3. seriously, everywhere

All I could do was drive home. It was only another mile. I called my husband. "Honey, I'm on my way home. I'll be there in approximately two minutes. I need help, so please be waiting outside." He must have thought I was going to drive a flaming minivan up to the house, because he was outside and had my door open before I put the car in park.

"What's wrong? What can I do? What do you need help with?" I just pointed behind me. I think he'd rather deal with a flaming engine than two chocolate coated toddlers. I looked at him, expecting to see laughter in his eyes, because he always finds things like this a lot more humorous than I do. Instead, I saw terror.

"Is that.... omigod I'm scared to ask, but is that... POOP?"

I couldn't pass it up. I just couldn't. I nodded.

He groaned. He moaned. He unbuckled Abby's carseat. He gagged and nearly threw up when she tried to give him a bite of her now soggy and chocolate soaked cookie, which greatly resembled a turd at this point. I thought he was going to faint from relief when he realized it wasn't poop.

The good thing about this experience is that I learned a new swear word from my kid (holy crabby patties, Patrick!). The bad news is that they won't be getting any more of those cookies. Wait, maybe that's good news - at least for me.