Do you know the Muffin Man?

     I sometimes amaze myself  with my total disregard for common sense. Being the father of an almost two year old daughter, one would think that by now I would have learned to pick my battles wisely when it comes to trying to teach my daughter the virtues of proper behavior. There comes a time when one must choose to stand his ground and fight or make a hasty retreat and avoid the oncoming destruction that is about to be waylaid upon him by such a seemingly innocent child. I apparently have a hard time making that distinction.
   
     Today's lesson in daddy decision making reared its screaming, malevolent head in the middle of a local grocery store. Ah, crowded public places...a child's favorite arena to test a daddy's mettle and rain embarrassment down upon him should the mood strike her. We had made a deal (and I say that with all of the misplaced confidence one should have when referring to a twenty-three month old's comprehension of making a deal) that if she were good in the store, I would buy her a muffin. My daughter has an inexplicably unquenchable mania for baked goods, ALL baked goods, but especially those in the muffin category, and these she lovingly refers to as "Muffin Man". Cupcake she knows, cake and pie are called by name, I'm currently trying to teach her "Bear Claw" and "Apple Fritter" (her mommy doesn't know that yet), but muffins are always "Muffin Man". She knows exactly where muffin man lives in every single store and whenever we cross the threshold into any given market, she invariably asks, "Muffin Man?", and the closer we get to the baked goods section, she begins chanting like a miniature swami on meth "Muffin Man Muffin Man muffinman muffinmanmuffinmanmiffinman" until she is either denied or is rewarded with Muffin Man. Today, since she had been rather well behaved in the store (and since I, too, love baked goods) I decided Muffin Man was in order. The chaos began when Muffin Man was placed in his little, brown bag and was nonchalantly tossed in with the rest of the groceries in the cart as we made our way to the checkout queue. To say my daughter protested not being given the opportunity to decimate the muffin right then and there would not really describe the mayhem that exploded when Muffin Man didn't end up in her hands. I thought, "this will be a great opportunity to work on teaching my daughter the concept of patience and how to behave in public". My daughter was thinking "MUFFIN MAAAAANNNNNNNNNNN". Except she wasn't thinking it, she was screaming it at the top of her little, yet super-humanly powerful lungs. I tried to rationalize with her and explain that we have to first pay for the muffin, and when we get to the car and get all strapped in she would be free to delicately enjoy her muffin like any proper twenty-three month child should, but she apparently didn't believe me. I actually believed at one point that this tantrum would culminate in a tiny, nuclear explosion that would obliterate at least my checkout lane and if I were lucky enough to be vaporized it would save me from further humiliation. That was not the case. What I did get, however, was a lot of awkward smiles and sideways glances from the other patrons. Like their children never had a complete meltdown in a public place. The nice cashier tore some stickers off of her Emergency Child Pacification Sticker Roll that she had stashed next to her register and offered them to my daughter in hopes of quenching the fires of hatred that were pouring forth. Upon receipt of the stickers, my daughter looked at them, screamed "NAOOOOOOOOOOOOOO", threw them at me and reasserted her demand of "MUFFFFFIINNNN MAAAAANNNNNNN".
   
     That's when the eighty-seven year old lady in line in front of me decided that she had no idea how to run her card through the machine at the checkout, which card to use, and I'm not even sure she knew where or who she was. What I do know, though, is that she was either ignoring or was totally oblivious to the fact that there was nuclear meltdown happening not three feet directly behind her. I don't care who you are, how old you are or what your status in life is, but if there is someone behind you with a screaming child and he looks as though he wishes he could either teleport somewhere else or spontaneously combust, please take pity on that poor parent and move on with your day so he can get the screaming baby out of that store. Alas, it was not to be. Moses' grandmother spent so long trying to figure out the machine that the cashier had to do it for her. AND THEN, once all was complete and her groceries were all loaded she had to analyze her receipt, whilst still standing in the line, to make sure she got her five cents off for using her own bag.

     The cashier was wise enough that as soon as the opportunity was presented, she scanned the muffin and handed it back to me, still nestled inside its damnable paper bag. The unrelenting scream of "MUFFFIIINNNN MAAAAAAAA___" was immediately squelched when I decapitated Muffin Man and handed my daughter the severed muffin top. A soft "Thank you, Daddy" escaped her lips as she shoveled said muffin into her face. As quickly and as violently as it had begun, it was now over and all was well with the world again.

     After packing everyone and everything back into car, whilst still frazzled, out of breath, and feeling like I had just been beaten about the head and shoulders by some overwhelming foe, I called my wife to recount the ordeal. Her only response was, "THAT'S WHY YOU GIVE HER THE MUFFIN IN THE CHECKOUT LINE". Yeah. Maybe not the best choice for a time to teach patience to someone who hasn't even the slightest concept of the idea. It's an ongoing process. For both of us.