Kallan’s friend went home earlier this evening after a week with us. Kallan’s friend is a lovely girl, and the visit went very well. Kallan was sad to see her go.
Sad and exhausted and a little bit manic . . . a week is a long time to have a friend stay with you . . . the transition back to your real life is a bit jarring.
When I realize just a short while later that we need two cans of cherry pie filling for tomorrow’s Thanksgiving pie, I figure a short trip to the store will be a good distraction, “Hey, Kallan? You want to come with me to the grocery store?”
“Sure.” She pulls on her boots and off we drive into the rainy dark evening.
The closest grocery store to our house is a small pricey affair, but I figure we only need two cans of cherry pie filling . . . how bad could the pre-holiday price gouging be? Kallan and I wander up and down the aisles looking for pie filling, “Mommy, just ask someone.”
I walk down the aisle labeled, among other things, “Canned Fruit,” for perhaps the 4th time, “I don’t think they have what we want, and I don’t want to waste time hunting down an employee who is just going to tell me that they don’t have the item I want.”
Kallan follows me mopily down the aisle, “That makes no sense at all. How is wandering the entire store several times a better use of our time than asking someone?”
“Hey! I found it! Right here next to the canned chili . . . yeah, because that makes sense.”
“Beans are the musical fruit, Mommy.”
“Silly you. Grab two cans so we can get out of here.”
Kallan picks up two cans and turns to leave, but I call her back, “Wait. Does this say that those cans are $5.59 each?”
Kallan peers at the price tag on the shelf and then at the SKU number on the cans she’s holding, “Yup. That seems like a lot.”
“I know, right? That means, once I add in the $2.00 I spent on pie crust the other day, this pie is costing me more than $13.00 to make. I might as well buy a ready-made pie.”
Kallan goes all whiny, “But you promised we could have cherry pie on Thanksgiving.”
I take the cans from her hands and put them back on the shelf, “Not if the filling costs $11.00. That’s ridiculous. Let’s go find some apples; we’ll make an apple pie instead.”
“But I don’t like apple pie!”
“We’re also making pumpkin. You can have pumpkin pie.”
“But I want there to be two kinds of pie I like! You promised we would make cherry.” Her voice is getting louder and whinier and more strident, and I am annoyed as I play back her words in my head. Seriously? She is going to throw a fit about pie? How annoying to be the woman with the incredibly ungrateful spoiled child on Thanksgiving Eve. I do not need this shit.
“Kallan, get a grip.”
“But I don’t want apple pie! I hate apple pie!” She stomps her feet and folds her arms in stubborn confrontation, “I won’t eat it.”
So annoying. We are drawing attention now, and I consider just bailing on the whole shopping trip. I take a deep breath as Kallan rants in the produce section about how she won’t eat pie that tastes like poo. A part of me realizes that Kallan and I have both had our reserves of patience and good humor exhausted in this week of playing host to Kallan’s friend. No way should we be out running a last-minute evening errand together. A part of me sees that. Another part of me is pissed that Kallan is being an asshole.
I take another deep breath, “OK, how about I look up a lemon meringue recipe and we’ll see what we need to make that kind of pie? Maybe we can do that instead.” Shoppers around us stare at me disbelievingly, and I want very badly to give them the finger, but I do not.
Kallan stops flipping out, “OK, I like lemon.”
I reach for my phone to look up a recipe, “Oops. I forgot to bring my phone. Let me borrow your cell phone for a minute.”
“Why?”
I stare at her, “I am so hoping you did not mean for that single word to sound quite as rude as it sounded to my ears. I want to borrow your phone so I can call Daddy. He can tell us what we need for lemon meringue pie.”
“I didn’t bring my phone.”
“Oh, for god’s sake.”
“Don’t be mad at me. I didn’t do anything wrong!”
“I’m not mad at you, I am mad at the situation. Listen, Kallan. Are you listening?”
She pouts, “When you ask me if I am listening, I know I am going to hate the next thing you say.”
“Kallan, could you try to be a little more me and a little less you? Here’s the deal. We can get apples or we can skip the second pie and just have pumpkin. Your call.”
Her eyes widen as she registers my insult, and she takes an angry step forward at me and yells into my face, “I WANT CHERRY PIE!”
At which point, I have just fucking had it, and I throw my arms in the air in frustration, “Are you kidding me?”
As I throw my hands in the air, she shrinks and cowers and whimpers before me, her hands held protectively over her head, “Don’t hit me!”
I stare down at her incredulously for a moment, my hands still above my head.
I want, for a split second, nothing more in the world than to smack her.
In front of all these curious people.
Nothing more in the world.
I don’t.
I never have.
I am close to tears as Kallan stares at me in angry defiance and says loudly, “I thought you were going to hit me.”
I do not like her very much in this moment. I do not like myself in this moment. Kallan has pulled this kind of shit before, but she has never managed to push my buttons like this.
I need to get out of here.
I turn and walk out of the store, with Kallan trailing after me, “Mommy, come back! Don’t leave! I was joking! I’m sorry!”
We sit in the car in silence. I close my eyes and breathe deeply. I reach for her hand, and she bursts into tears, “I’m sorry. I was just really mad.”
“I know, babe. Me too. I’m sorry too.”
We talk for a little bit.
We hold hands.
And then we drive to the slightly more distant grocery store and buy two cans of cherry pie filling for $2.50 a can.
So on this Thanksgiving Eve, I am thankful . . .
for choices . . .
and for the ability to see them.
