Hot dog buns! Hot dog buns!

“Can I help you?”
“Yeah, you got any wheat bread today?”
“Whole wheat?”
“Yep.”
“Yeah we do.”
“Great, a loaf of that please.”
“You want it sliced or whole?”
“Sliced would be great.”
“Okay.”

My daughter’s on her third cookie chunk from the sample tray. “That’s enough samples, honey.” She pops the piece in her mouth, eyebrows raised. “Thank you for waiting. Do you know what you want for your treat?”
“Donut.”
“Cool. Chocolate donut?”
“Chocolate or cinammon, I like both kinds.”
“That’s great. You get to choose, they have both today.”
“Ummmmmmmmm chocolate.”

“Here’s your bread. Anything else?”
“Yeah, two chocolate donuts and a croissant please.”
“Chocolate or plain?”
“Chocolate donuts.”
“No, the croissant, plain one or chocolate filled?”
“Oh, plain please.”
“Got it.”

My daughter’s got another cookie chunk in her hand. “That’s enough samples.” She lowers her chin to her chest and looks up at me out of the corner of her eye.

“I changed my mind.”
“About what sweetie?”
“I want a cupcake instead.”
“Okay, no problem. Hey excuse me, sorry,” I wave to the bakery clerk, “I’m sorry but can I swap one of the donuts for a cupcake instead?”
“Sure thing.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it, my kid changed her mind.”
“It’s cool.” She sets the white paper bags down on the counter, “okay we got a loaf of bread,” she pushes a button and the register rings as she says the name of each item, “one chocolate donut, one cupcake, and one croissant. That everything?”
“Yep that’s all.”
“All right. That’ll be eight fifty nine.”

I fill out the numbers on the check, sign my name across the bottom, at my phone number to the top. “I put an extra buck on the check for the tip, I don’t have any cash.”
“Hey thanks.”
“For sure.”

I pick up the pastries and bread from the counter and turn to see my daughter bite into her fifth sample cookie chunk. “Hey I told you twice to stop taking the samples. I’m angry you didn’t listen to me.” She frowns. “Let’s get your mittens on.” I set my bags on the formica-topped table where I our hats, mittens, and gloves. I pull her hat on over her hair. “Give me one hand.” I slip a mitten on each hand. “Are you thumbs in the thumb part?” She wiggles her thumbs. “Cool, let’s head to the car, Mama’s waiting.” I stuff my own gloves and hat in my pockets. I turn to the door.

“Hey! Daddy!” She runs back to the the front of the display case. I look over my shoulder at her, she points to a plastic bag, “hot dog buns!”
“Yep. Let’s go.”
“No, hot dog buns, remember we were going to get some?”
“Oh yeah. I forgot. Honey let’s just go, we already got our stuff this time, we’ll get some next time.”
“But Daddy! Hot dog buns!”
“Sweetie I’m sorry but I want to go home and I don’t want to wait in line again.”
“But you said next time at the bakery we would get hot dog buns!”
“I know I did and I understand that this is frustrating but we’ll have to get them next time. We forget about them until just now. I don’t want to wait in line another time.”
“No! We have to get them!” I hear a shout coming just over the horizon.

Sighing, I squat down, wrap one arm around her, and stand, lifting her up. “Honey it’s time to go, I’m sorry. Let’s just walk to the car.” I walk to the door, push it open with a foot.
“But Daddy!” She extends the first syllable, the pitch rising slowly, the second syllable short and low. “Daddy!” She extends both syllables and the pitch gets even higher on the second. “Listen to me!”
“Honey I know you’re frustrated but it’s been a long day and we really just stopped here for treats and it’s time to go home now. I’m sorry. I know I said we’d get hot dog buns next time but we didn’t remember in time. We can do that another time. Not day.” As I walk down the block of iced over sidewalks with baked goods in one harm and child in the other, she begins to kick her booted feet in the air. “Sweetie you’re going to make me drop our pastries, or slip, or drop you.” She quits kicking, but grunts loud and angry then shouts “hot dog buns!”

This has been a snowy winter so the plows have built high embankments of frozen snow as the months have stretched on. They’re a dingy white peppers with darker black flecks of dirt and filthy ice. The mound crunches as I step up on top of it. “Hot dog buns!” I take a big step down off the mound of frozen snow into the street to get to our car. “Buns! Hot dog buns!” I set her down by the trunk of the car.
“Let me put our stuff in the car and then I’ll put you in your car seat. Put a hand on the car and stand here, okay?”
“I won’t!”
“Honey, please.”
“No! I want hot dog buns.”
“I’m not walking back to the bakery for buns and if you keep this up I won’t get buns next time.”
“Then I won’t stand here!” She takes a step around me, toward the street. I grab her with one arm, “hey!” She struggles, I drop our bread and pastries on top of the trunk, grab the front of her coat with both hands shouting loud now “hey you stop right now you are right by the street you stop right there right now.” I lift her into the air. She looks at me eyes wide.
“What’s going on?”
My wife has gotten out of the car, stands by the open passenger door. “She’s mad at me about not getting hot dog buns and just started to walk toward the street. That’s not okay.”
“No it’s not. That’s not safe,” she tells me daughter. She steps around to the back of the car, takes my daughter’s arm. I set her down. “Let’s get you in your seat.” My wife leads my daughter to the rear passenger door. I realize I am grinding my teeth, jaw clenched. I pick up our pastries and bread, open the driver’s side door and climb in the car.

As I drive home I play out the scenario in my head. I should have gotten the buns, this was a cost saving measure that backfired, but why can’t she just do what I tell her to do? I imagine taking her donut away. It would be very satisfying. She annoyed and then scared me. If I take her donut away I will share the wealth, discomfort traded for discomfort. That would feel very righteous for a minute and then I would just feel bad afterward. What would the goal be anyway? I don’t want to react simply based on how I’m feeling, I want my actions to have a goal. Her behavior was inappropriate and unsafe, I don’t want her to do that. Taking her donut away would make that clear. But that’s not really why I want to do this. I want to do this because a part of me wants to hurt her, quid pro quo, you upset me and I’ll show you what happens to children who upset me. I imagine many scenes from my own childhood that played out based on that basic script, where the real goal was retribution and the real motivation was how my parents were feeling at the moment. That’s not how I want to parent.

“You okay?” My wife puts her hand on my arm.

“Yeah, just thinking.”

“So what happened?”

“She wanted hot dog buns but we were already walking out the door when she saw them and I wanted to get home so I said no.” I talk loud enough to be heard over the classical music station but quiet enough to keep my voice from drifting to the back seat. “She’s tired so she got mad. I was annoyed for a bunch of reasons but I got really mad when she started to talk toward the street because she was mad at me, that’s really dangerous.”

“Definitely.”

“Part of me wants to take her donut away because I feel like, I was trying to be nice by buying her a treat and this is how she’s going to act? That makes me mad. But I don’t want to be like I’m mad so here’s what you get. I also think we’re both tired from the museum and I know I’m hungry, she probably is too. And if I’m being honest I was kinda pissed because she kept eating samples after I told her to stop. The important bit is the walking toward the street part though.”

“Yeah. I think we should talk with her about it after dinner.”

“Yeah.”