Never again.

I really didn't think it would be that bad.  After all, LB had been to the commissary.  JC had been to the commissary.  They have gone together, in one of those kid-friendly rocket ship carts.  But I think those days are over... no, I know those days are over.

Today was the most humiliating trip to the commissary I've ever experienced.  After getting the requisite rocket ship cart, we entered into the produce department.  Despite pointing out that there were two steering wheels, the boys immediately starting pushing each other and fighting.  I should have stopped right there.  I should have left the empty cart in the middle of the aisle.  I've done it before, it's no big deal.  But I pushed on, because we were low on milk and eggs and veggies and fruit, etc.

By the end of the produce aisle, after only chipping away at my list slightly, there was yelling and crying and general arguing going on.  I still pressed on, determined to get the olive oil and milk on my list.  By the end of the shopping, both boys were behaving so terribly that I had begun to lose my mind and was haphazardly throwing random stuff in my cart (Frozen ravioli?  Sure!  Two packages of Ziploc bags?  Sure!  Batteries?  Why the hell not!).

But my embarrassing nightmare didn't end there.  Since we had that stupid rocket ship cart, which only fits down handicapped aisles, we had to wait behind a line of no less than five people.  That was the tipping point.  There was hair pulling and biting and huge tears.  I tried my best to intervene, but ended up taking LB out of the cart after he bit JC's hand.  Then, LB threw one of the biggest, hyperventilating tantrums I've ever seen a kid throw. 

One cashier must have felt sorry for me (or was just plain sick of listening to the screeching... I, for one, was) and opened another check out lane just for me.  She said she had four children, but that's all I remember hearing.  I don't even remember the check out at all.  I was grasping LB's arm, lest he kick another cashier, or punch another bagger, or bang his head on the ground.  I remember handing over my credit card and tipping the bagger.  That's about it.

(May I remind you, my readers, that this child is nearly four years old and still throwing the most horrific temper tantrums known to man?)

On the way home, I was feeling the grips of sanity slip away, so I self-medicated with a Crunchwrap Supreme and a root beer (oh, how I wished it was a real beer).  Shut it, Jillian Michaels, it was tasty and I deserved it.  Once we arrived at home, both boys went immediately to their rooms and have been there all afternoon... I'm pretty sure they're both sleeping now.

I, however, have been in a foul mood ever since and feel the need to punch the world in the nuts.  So, I'm asking you, my readers, to please provide a horrific tale of your children / nephew / niece / dog / whatever so I can feel a little bit better knowing that my children aren't the only ones capable of making me curl up into the fetal position, wishing for the day to just be over already.