Revenge in the Supermarket
Sunday, October 2nd 2011 @ 7:51 AM
My children spent much of their formative years in a large, well-lit suburban supermarket with shelves full of all sorts of attractively packaged stuff (I hesitate to call it food) which I did not want to buy but they did. We did not own a television, so it couldn’t have been the commercials.
It must have been the neighbors. The neighbors ate Cocoa Puffs and Fruit Loops. The neighbors were kind enough to introduce my kids to this poison, I mean food. No, I mean stuff.
And once you’ve tasted from the Tree of Sugar-Laden-Nutrition-Free Cereal, let’s face it. You want more.
The packages held the promise of tempting prizes and sweet memories. But mom was tough. She said no. “But it’s kosher,” they whined. From a young age they had learned all about keeping kosher. Two sets of dishes, one for meat and one for milk. The need for a kosher symbol on packaged and canned foods.
“Look!” said the eight-year-old. “There’s an O-U! And you get a free helicopter! We can buy it!” “Yeh, yeh,” his younger siblings cheered, “it’s kosher, we can buy it, we can buy it.”
“Look,” I said, dropping to one knee, making eye contact (I got this technique from an article in Mothering Magazine. Or was it How to Talk so Your Kids Will Listen and Not Have a Temper Tantrum in a Public Place?) and spoke in a reasonable tone.
“It is technically kosher, but it doesn’t have any nutritional value whatsoever. The first ingredient is sugar. The next ingredient is sugar. The next one is artificial color, followed by artificial flavors and preservatives. It’s not healthy and we’re not buying it.”
They were ready. They had rehearsed. “But we want it,” they whined. The two-year-old began crying. People looked at us. You know the look. The look that says, “Jeez, can’t that woman handle her own kids?”
“Why, why, why?” pleaded the four-year-old. “Look, one of the ingredients is vitamins!” said the ringleader. “Vitamins are good! Please, please, we want it!”
And that’s when I lost it. I lay down in the middle of the aisle, on my back, and began to kick and pound my arms. “I can’t take it anymore!” I yelled. “I can’t cope with this!”
All three children stood silently, shocked, looking down at me. “Get up, Mommy,” the four-year-old hissed. “You’re embarrassing us!”
“I’m embarrassing you?” I sat up, leaning on one elbow. “Well, now you know how I feel!”
They were mortified. And quiet, even as we walked through the candybar minefield known as the cash register. The next time we went shopping they made me promise not to throw any temper tantrums in the cereal aisle. “I won't if you won’t,” I agreed. Henry Kissinger would have been proud.
