The Mall Adventure Continues

This article appeared in the Glendale News-Press and Burbank Leader in July 2004

Maybe it’s me………….

but do kids not get when they have crossed the line? And wouldn’t it be nice if they would just see the line and choose not to cross it?

If you recall, in last week’s episode, our heroine (that would be me) was about to enter the mall with 3 children. The “Golf Ball Incident” had been successfully averted, the mall speech had been reiterated, the birds were singing, and the sun was shining. We were good to go. Little knowing what fate has in store for me, I venture into the men’s clothing section of a fancy department store, with the children………….

And those precious angels immediately begin to play tag. I shout – with decorum, of course, “Hey, I said no playing tag!”

My darling daughter, who will one day be a marvelous lawyer, replies, “Actually, no, you didn’t. You said “No running”.”

I hate to admit it, but I am rarely able to out-argue this 12-year old wannabe attorney. This time I had her, though – “Well, doesn’t tag involve running? There’s no running, so that would mean NO TAG, then, wouldn’t it?” AHA! A point for Mom.

As she ponders this logic, Son 2 says, “That’s ok, we’ll play “walk tag”.”

Steam curls off my head. I raise my voice in a civil, but stern, tone. “No! You won’t! The rules are amended – NO tag!”

Just as I attempt to refocus their attention on a shirt for Dad, Son 1 says “Let’s play Hide and Seek.”

I hear “Cool!” from the others, and they’re off.

As I stand there trying to comprehend how they could possibly think this is okay, Son 1 emerges from under a large, round rack of shirts, in a hurry. And suddenly, it’s like the slow motion segment of a movie: I see the rack coming down, I’m yelling “NOOOOOOOOOOOOO” and running forward (I know, I said no running). But I am in too much slow motion, and the entire rack of dress shirts at 30% off, discount to be taken at register, crashes to the ground.

Son 1 turns, looking innocent and surprised. “Was that me?”

I am now three different shades of purple as I reply through clenched teeth, “YES, it was YOU. Now PICK THEM UP. EVERY SINGLE ONE.”

“Oh, okay.”

As he works away industriously, he calls his siblings to come see all the hangers that are broken, so that the shirts slide right on to the floor when you hang them up. They think this is “awesome” and are highly entertained. I am about to scream. I’m still turning colors, and now I’m hissing. “Get them off the floor – just put them on top of the rack! We’ll go ask for new hangers.”

Salespeople have started to gather. I speak with forced calm, and loudly, so that everyone can hear what a wonderful mom I am; using this unfortunate incident to teach my son a moral lesson about responsibility. “Come, DEAR, you need to tell someone about the accident, and ask for more hangers, so that you can take care of the mess you made.”

Accordingly, Son 1 and I carry the broken hangers over the to the desk. We confess his transgression, and ask for more hangers. The saleslady arches an eyebrow and replies coolly that they will handle the rehanging of the shirts. No, really, they insist. And was there something I needed?

Actually, yes. But just catch me shopping in here now. I’ll be back tomorrow, in a wig and dark glasses. ALONE.

I reply smoothly, “Ah, nope, uh, just leaving. On our way out now. Come along, children.” We back away and I slink towards the exit. The kids, while not exactly slinking, have at least got the sense to keep a low profile on the way out.

The sales staff is tag-teaming us as we progress through the store. We make it over to the mall exit, near the home section. I pause to admire a crystal vase, but notice the clerks hovering nervously. I turn to go, leading the kids, and I see the store staff start to relax. Just as we are about to leave, I look down in horror as three or four golf balls from the boys’ pockets go AWOL – back into the store – and my sons give chase.

My husband says that I’m paranoid to think that they’ve given our photos to the security personnel. I don’t think so, but maybe it’s me.