Last week my 5-year-old kicked me in the shins while we stood in the checkout at Rite Aid. Granted, we should not have been at Rite Aid so late, and by late I mean 6:30 p.m. And perhaps, since I was the one who dragged her and her toddler brother out to get toddler Tylenol, I should have been more understanding. Maybe I should have just purchased the toy cars and lollipops they were yelling for as I tried to pay, so the rest of the line would stop wondering why I had been allowed to have kids in the first place.
But I was mean. I did not purchase toy cars and lollipops. Instead I scooped each kid up and dragged both of them screeching out of the store. (In our whole family, the only people who aren’t a little dramatic are the ones who are dead.) I strapped them into their car seats and drove the three minutes home, contemplating whether the timeouts should begin in our Toyota or in our apartment.