PARENTING
Dear Daughter, Today Was Your First Properly Embarrassing Tantrum In a Mall
We exorcised the devil, enjoyed a quiet dinner, and won the Worst Parents of the Year award. I give the day 6 out of 10.
I had jokes. Now I’m the joke! Life’s funny that way.
Dear daughter,
Congratulations.
You have now completed the mandatory achievement of “Show the world we’re the worst parents by throwing yourself on the floor in the middle of a crowded shop while howling like you are on fire!” I finally got the looks of despise and judgment from fellow shoppers and sales personnel, all on one glorious day. You’re right. That’s big girl stuff.
I wonder what’s next?
Telling everyone your daddy hits you and the big blue bruise on your thigh, the one you got jumping stairs, is somehow my fault? I can’t wait for those conversations. I hear they’re fun. I can already see the terror in the eyes of concerned strangers when they see a pissed-off giant enter the room. That will cause some sleepless nights.
Don’t worry. I forgive you upfront. We’ve all been there and done that. I can’t count how often I’ve threatened my parents with social services and even the police. Ah, the good old times of innocent perjuries, threatening my parents with jail because they wouldn’t cave into my demands.
The day began wonderfully.
I was a productive little house hubby today. I wrote two complete articles and published them. He pats himself on the back. They will have reached about a hundred people and maybe make someone’s day. Most will drown out in the vast cemetery of unopened emails.
Success!
It’s important to celebrate the little victories in life, especially in the absence of meaningful ones. You know, the ones you can proudly express to your friends instead of shamefully muttering something about “I do wohcs feifh shdsif hrisd,” through your teeth, making damn sure they can’t hear you when anyone asks how’s work while mustering a fake smile.
That will be a fun conversation — what do you do for a living, Daddy?
Well, the last two paychecks were from writing. Thus, I now tell everyone I’m a writer! A paid writer. It sounds better than an unemployed bum. It’s technically true, and since you don’t know what money is anyway, let’s put it this way. Remember the last five ice-creams at our favorite cottage? My writing paid for five of the fifty you ate this summer. That’s right — your daddy’s the man. You’re welcome!
It was a good day.
Your mother dispensed with a few meetings and made sure there would be food on the table. I don’t deserve that woman, but I love her dearly. I don’t know why that’s the name of the game these days, but here we are. There are seasons in everything. I’m currently playing house and artist, but there will come a time when my focus will again be on making money. Real money. Not ice cream change. Until that day, I’m all yours, baby girl.
Anyways, where was I?
Oh yes, the day was going great. It was a cold one, so when we picked you up from kindergarten, we told you we were going out to eat. Where else than in our favorite mall? I used to make fun of people who spent afternoons walking their kids in the mall. I had jokes. Now I’m the joke! Life’s funny that way.
You were an indoor toddler. Now you’re an outside one.
I preferred the first, but who’s asking Daddy what he wants to do with his afternoon anyway? Whenever you see me coming to pick you up from kindergarten, you hug me, ask where mom is, and then immediately demand we go out to eat. Always in that order. Oh, how you love your routines. “I want to go to the cottage for ice cream!” (cottage being a semi-outdoor coffee shop surrounded by nature) No cottage for us today. We’d freeze.
It’s mall time, baby!
“But I’m hungry. I want to eat,” you protest. Despite having about seven meals by four o’clock, food is where your heart is — every single day. So we make a deal, the three of us. We’re going to the mall, where we will have something to eat, like a normal 21st-century inner-city family we occasionally pretend to be. The food part seals the deal, so you allow me to buckle you in your seat. Success!
When we arrive at the mall, you see the twisty ramp that takes us to the higher floors of the parking garage. Your eyes widen, and you begin the classic “I want to go up high and eat” discussion. It’s not really a discussion. Either we comply, or we have a rage party in the car. Fun times. Since that was the plan today, we rejoice in a little tire squeal on the slippery asphalt and make your mom sick. Two people having fun out of three ain’t bad. Success!
You have a song in your step.
I won’t lie. I almost believed we would have a good time, the three of us. Naive fool that I am! As we approached the restaurants, your mother decided on a detour through the shops. Discount something, need other, but in reality, she just likes to shop.
Mistakes were made!
As we enter the shop, it takes you exactly twenty-seven seconds before you transform from a happy little girl to a tormented soul fighting demons with your bare hands. I’m sad to say the demons won. What the name of the devil that possessed you yesterday was, I don’t know. All I know is that it was one ugly, cranky, excruciatingly loud ancient evil from the depths of the darkest corner of hell. The one even Uncle Satan, formerly known as Lucifer, is afraid of. An entity darker than space and older than time.
A sight to behold!
I was looking at you as you prayed in your ritualistic frenzy to the Gods of chaos and torment, wailing at the altar of your mother’s leg. Eyes turning, body shaking, performing a dance of wind and fire. I could swear I saw a lady thinking of calling her priest for an emergency exorcism as she frantically searched for his number. She’ll have nightmares, this one. I’m sorry, ma’am.
The cashier lady was young.
She probably thought little girls were always pretty, playful, and nice. “Let’s braid each other’s hair and giggle,” kind of nice. Not, “I shall consume your soul, defecate on your ancestors, and decorate my necklace with ears of innocent petrified mallgoers” kind of terrifying. Well, now she knows.
She couldn’t speak, the poor thing. She just stood there, frozen, and watched your possession play out in terror. I had to hide the smile that crept on my lips. It’s rude to smile at crying kids, I’m told. But the drama was just too much. An Oscar-worthy performance! I couldn’t understand a word of that jibberish, but it must have been important. Critics would love you.
I had to say “thank you” to the lady three times before she was able to return the kind words and tear her eyes away from you with a bleeding heart. Still, I saw the hollow in her eyes. The emptiness. Dissilusement. Horror. That’s one more young lady who won’t be having children any time soon. Greta would be proud, and Elon would look at another employee to impregnate, ensuring the survival of the human race — brave soul, that one.
The exorcism.
When we exited the shop, your mother, bless her soul, managed to exonerate the demons from your body, and we stole our favorite (only) daughter back from its sharp claws. I even got a hug and a brief explanation. You were angry. Yeah, no shit! We didn’t notice.
All it took to stop the devil from coming into this world and consuming the souls of the innocent was a threat that we’re going home right now unless you stop this protest, and then there will be no dinner in the mall. For either one of us, and I was looking forward to it.
You should have seen the panic in your eyes.
No food? Conquering the world will have to wait. I smell french fries! We had a nice, albeit quiet, meal together and then repeated the exercise twice more for good measure. The old darkness had grown roots. It may have been hungry for some fries, but when satiated, it was back for blood! Jesus has nothing on your mother when it comes to exorcising demons, with a firm voice and a warm hug. I know. I melt in her arms, too. No devil can resist her love!
The aftermath report.
We had a pleasant, long conversation about the incident in the evening, you and I. By long, I mean you said a few words while burying your head in a pillow, and I asked a lot of questions. By pleasant, I mean there was no screaming. You were mad, I know.
The reason for this performance of the year was that you wanted to go straight to the restaurant, without the five-minute visit to the shop. A worthy cause, my love! If I ever saw one! Revolutions have been fought for less. I fully support boycotting the shops with their deceiving discounts, worthless junk, and smelly shoppers.
I stand by your conviction and support your cause. But no, no cookies before sleep, no YouTube, and no excursions for a while, young lady. I get it. I’m not mad, but I can’t, in good conscience (don’t want to, can’t make me), reward such heinous behavior. I don’t care about the judging eyes of strangers nor the hard-won Worst Parent of the Year award. I’ve been expecting them for a while. That is not the way to communicate. And it will not be tolerated.
I have rights!
You protest that you have the right to be angry. You absolutely do, my love. And I have a right to withdraw some benefits from your life when you act as a conduit for evil souls to enter this world from the great beyond just because you wanted dinner five minutes earlier, and we didn’t comply.
I don’t know what to tell you, darling, but we’re not the ones at the bottom of the food chain in this family. Your precious tinny diaper-wearing ass is. For the time being, you will have to remove your behind from the throne and allow us to take the lead. I know the horror and injustice in this world. I feel for you. I do. A monastery is being built in remembrance of your suffering and martyrdom.
For future reference, the last three gigantic outbursts were caused for the following reasons:
- You were watching TV, your favorite songs on YouTube, actually, and when it was time to turn off the TV, you lost your bloody mind. The horror!
- You wanted to get candy in the car; when we refused, it was the end of the world. If anyone in the neighborhood hadn’t known we had an angry toddler, they now know. Injustice!
- You wanted to go straight to the restaurant, and your mother wanted to buy a few things first. How dare she!
I get it. I would be mad, too.
How dare we oppose your will on such crucial matters. Justice is on your side. You have the right to have an opinion. You have the right to be mad. You have the right to tell us when you disagree with us on something. You do.
All I’m asking is that you use words so we know what the hell is going on instead of performing weird howling rituals, petrifying the local population, and robbing random grandmas of their sleep.
Talk to us.
Tell us your desires and opinions. We don’t always have to agree on everything, and we won’t. I am not a mind reader, and neither is your mother. We’ll be fine as long as we communicate and understand one another. Also, unfortunately, you can’t always have it your way. I know you don’t understand why, but I assure you, we do.
Well, thank you for the experience of being embarrassed in front of strangers, judged for our poor parenting, and scaring another young lady from ever having children. I hear it builds character. Achievement unlocked. On to the next! Forward!
I love you, Dad.
I like you! Subscribe, and I’ll deliver new stories to your mailbox. If you enjoyed the story, help spread the word and remember to follow, like, share, and comment.
