Waving the white flag

I break a lot of rules of good parenting. Quite often, actually. I know Evan eats way too many chicken nuggets, watches a few too many movies, and knows far too many songs about alcoholic beverages. But not since the day my mother-in-law advised me to only say "no" to Evan when I really meant it--and then be sure to stick to it--have I given in as miserably to my newly-minted 4-year-old's whim as I did tonight. And I mean miserably. Evan worked me over until I was cowed like a whipped puppy into doing what he wanted. And the worst of it is, I didn't give in to please him. I gave in because I. Just. Couldn't. Take. It.

It all started this afternoon at Meijer. (I feel a deep sense of disloyalty to SuperTarget just writing that.) I was annoyed at having to go there for groceries because 1) I don't know my way around, so I can't just zip down the aisles and find everything I do (and don't) need in five minutes; 2) I was in the mood for my new-favorite sushi, which only Target carries; and 3) despite its pretty awesome produce section, Meijer still feels like a second-cousin to Wal-Mart.

But for all that, I opted to shop there instead of my beloved Target because 1) I wasn't wearing any make-up, and the chances of running into someone I knew at Meijer were much slimmer; and 2) I discovered last weekend that the Meijer deli counter ladies actually know what I mean when I ask for shredded turkey. Brenda, the deli counter lady I've come to know at Target, has sadly become like that hairstylist you've gone to for five years--you know, the one who's so used to cutting your hair that she no longer takes the time to do a really bang-up job. She's fallen into that Chatty Cathy stage where she knows what I want and starts slicing away before I can get a word in, and I end up walking away with a pound of what-have-you sliced in such a way that I'll never eat it. (Yes, I'm picky--and passive--like that.) I still adore her--she's sweet as can be and always asks where her boyfriend is when Evan's not with me, gives him generous pieces of white American cheese and honey ham on the sly, and makes sure he gets a cookie before we leave to do the rest of our shopping. But I just cannot go on bringing home $6 worth of thick-sliced turkey.

Back to the subject at hand.

There's a third reason we didn't go to Target today, and it's my own fault. About five months back, I introduced Evan to The Toy Section. Silly, naive, stupid me.

For a while, it went pretty well. If he was good while I did my grocery shopping--which, usually, he was--we'd go look at the train sets. Then we'd leave.

After he saw Cars, we started looking at the cars, then the trains. Then we'd leave.

After he saw Toy Story 3, we started looking at the cars, then Woody, Buzz, Rex, Slinky and the rest of the gang, and after that, the trains. But by then, Evan didn't want to leave. Instead, he'd nonchalantly grab a box of cars off the shelf and toss it into the cart. Thankfully, by that point his birthday wasn't too far off, so I started telling him that instead of us buying it, he'd have to tell Papaw and Mamaw or Papaw and Grammy that he wanted the green number such-and-such car for his birthday. We had a few minor tantrums, but nothing too horrific.

Well, the birthday has come and gone, and Evan now associates Target (and every other grocery store) with toys. The other night he was beyond frustrated that his soft-bodied Woody doll didn't have a real pull string--he cried and melted onto the floor and wailed, "It's broken! It's not working!" while he vainly tugged at the little painted string on Woody's back. I finally sat him down and explained that this Woody wouldn't talk, because his string was just a picture; it wasn't real like the one belonging to the talking Woody we'd seen at Target (and the one that's been hiding in my closet for two weeks). Instantly, his eyes lit up with a little glimmer of understanding, and he said, "We go to the grocery and get string Woody! Come on, Mommy! Follow me! Go to the car!"

I'm sure you can guess what kind of reaction that "no" got. But I stuck firm, the mommy who would not give in to her child's whims for his own good.

Tonight, that mommy was MIA. During our afternoon grocery run, Evan was passably good, so when he asked to go see the "string Woody," I relented. Meijer didn't have the string Woody, but that was okay...they had cars. Lots and lots of cars. Including a boxed set of three cars: a Lightning McQueen, a banged-up Strip Weathers (he crashes on the last lap), and a Piston Cup truck with a checkered flag. Now, I don't know when or where Evan's fascination with flags started, but he loves them. We brought home my in-laws' outdoor Green Bay Packers flag this weekend (brass pole included) because Evan latched on to it and wouldn't let go.

Seeing how taken Evan was with the set of cars, I told him that Christmas was just like his birthday--coming up soon, and he could ask Santa (or Papaw, Papaw, Mamaw, and Grammy) to get it for him. Didn't work. At all. And I tried, really. Then I remembered: Evan got $20 from my grandma for his birthday, and well, it was his money, wasn't it? He should be allowed to spend it on something he liked. So in the simplest of terms, I explained that he could buy it with his birthday money, which would then half-belong to me. (The cars were $10.) Well, heck, he didn't care; what's a piece of paper with a dead guy's picture on it compared to a box of cars? He thinks every bill is only $5 anyway, thanks to the Subway commercials.

So with that trade promised, I handed him the box of cars...but no, wait, he suddenly spotted a little teal car that shot across the floor when you pushed a button. It was also $10. He wanted that one instead. We went back and forth: Are you sure? You understand that we're only getting one? If we get this one, we don't get the truck with the checkered flag. With this box, you get two cars and the flag truck. With that box, you get one car. And you're sure you only want the one car? Really? Yes? Okay? Your money, your decision.

Well, I'm here to tell you that a very happy little boy turned into a most unhappy little boy as soon as we got home and he realized that he only had a teal car and no truck with a checkered flag. Unhappy as in, I put him down for a nap, and was so tired of arguing with him that I fell asleep right next to his disgruntled little self. Two hours later, he announced, "Good morning, Mommy! I wake up! I have sweet dreams!" And I rejoiced that a nap had done him so much good, and we were obviously starting over, and he was happy once again with his earlier purchase. Then:

"Mommy, I want Lightning car, and Strip Weathers, and flag truck."

Or not.

My mom can attest to exactly how many times Evan repeated his wish during our phone call tonight. Evan's speech therapist has a (very long) name--it starts with a p--for the instances when Evan repeats his wants or thoughts over and over and over and over (and over) again, be it going to a real football game, or going to the movies to get popcorn and rootbeer, or riding the escalator at the mall, et cetera. (I call it annoying, but that's not the scientific name for it.) It does absolutely no good to tell him to stop, or even try to answer him in a rational way. He just repeats himself again and again. And it will drive. you. nuts.

And that is how I surrendered and ended up re-bundling Evan in his coat and toboggan, taking a $20 out of his tractor bank, and heading back to Meijer at 7:30 tonight. Our garage door suddenly quit working yesterday, so we had to go out the back door and walk through the ice water that's pooled on our patio. When we pulled in to Meijer, it started to snow, and since my coat had been in the trunk all day, it was like putting on one big puffy block of ice. Once again, I was wearing no make-up, because of course we weren't going to be going anywhere tonight, right? We'd already been to the grocery six hours earlier. My bitter, defeated figure was accompanied by an absolutely overjoyed little boy who frog-hopped all the way across the parking lot.

Long story short, Evan got his cars. I got his $20, and he could care less. (Especially since we spent some of it on take-out at Fazoli's 15 minutes later. Cars and breadsticks. I am such a sucker.) When I buckled him into his carseat and said, "Well, are you happy now?," Evan--hugging his box of cars--said, "There you are, cars! I find you! Awww--give me a hug!" I had to turn around so he wouldn't see me smile.

As soon as we got home, I grabbed my camera and told Evan I wanted a picture of him and his cars. You never saw a prouder little boy, and after I was done, Evan turned the box around, told his cars they'd done a good job, gave them a hearty kiss, and high-fived them. Then he came over to me, held up his hand, and said, "High five, Mommy. Good job!" I'm sure Parents magazine and just about every other mom on the planet would disagree, but just for tonight (really, just tonight, I swear), it was worth it, and for more reasons than just saving my sanity.

And as long as I don't step on it in the middle of the night, that little Piston Cup truck is kind of cute.

Next up: Instruction in good decision-making skills and stick-to-it-ness. For Evan and for me.