Nobody Liked Johnny in the "Karate Kid."

I remember being in SAMs one day waiting with my dad as they were putting new tires on his Toyota Tacoma.  As we perused the offerings ranging from self-help books to a 5-Gallon jar (bucket?) of mayonnaise, I became aware of a disturbance.  Not like a disturbance in the Force, and not like when two Immortals from the Highlander franchise sense each other, no, this was the caterwauling of a child, a child who was used to getting his way and was clearly - at that moment - not.

The issue was over a drink that had been purchased at the snack bar there at SAMs.  Have you seen the snack bar?  It's strategically placed right at the end of the registers (because what parent doesn't want to deal with, "Mom/Dad, can I have a drink/hot dog/piece of pizza/pretzel, etc.?" as s/he is trying to make sure they have enough empty Budweiser and Green Giant Broccoli Florets in Cheese Sauce flat boxes to fit their purchases in for the trip home?).

Anyway, this little urchin, a five or six year-old with the lung capacity of an Olympic swimmer and the voice projection of an opera-quality mezzo-soprano is belting out his EXTREME dissatisfaction that his 32-ounce styrofoam cup with a plastic top - these details are important later - drink was a 7-Up and not a Mountain Dew (yeah, let's caffeine this little devil spawn up, that'll be good for everybody...maybe we can toss around some unexploded grenades later, too).  His mother (I can only assume that she was his mother, otherwise, she should have left him with his cup of 7-Up and bus fare) was seeking to gently explain to him the intricacies of waiting patiently while she conducted her transaction with the Nice Lady at the Register.  The Nice Lady at the Register was a high school-age student who, based on the look on her face, made the decision right then and there that having kids would be somebody else's responsibility from there on out, thank you.  The much-maligned mother (who, I was impressed to see was still well-groomed and was dressed for a day out with a top and skirt rather than ill-matching sweats and a rubber band holding back unruly hair) turned back to the Nice Lady to pay after interacting with the little hellion.  Said hellion now had the attention of everybody in line, people at the door, a few of us wandering near the front, and I'm sure the guy in the security booth.  Somehow, the kid actually turned purplish with rage.  Not Violet Bearueguard from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory purple, but a disturbing purple, nonetheless.

(At this point, I do wish it noted that this child showed only signs of being spoiled, not of any other condition, so leave the bleeding heart nonsense at the door.)

"Watch this..." I said to Dad.

I felt my father's hand grip my arm, "What's going to happen, Son?"

I shook my head, "I don't know, Dad, but it's going to be..."

That's as far as I got.  Without warning, the little ball of purple raised the cup above his head and smashed it to the ground.

Remember: styrofoam cup, plastic lid.

7-Up and ice splattered everywhere.  

His mother took the worst of it, her stockinged legs suddenly browning in spots where the sticky soda began soaking into nylon.  The Nice Lady at the Register was also victimized by the exploding beverage, taking spray in her face (thus confirming her recent commitment to childlessness), as were several shoppers-turned-innocent bystanders nearby including an elderly gentleman with a gray crewcut and an anchor tattoo whose look said, I'd handle that boy with my belt and a poorly lit room, by God!

It's rare that silence falls across a warehouse sales floor, but it did...oh, it did.  That silence descended like the fog on Frost's proverbial little cat's feet.  As ice melted on the concrete floor of SAMs Club, we all waited to see how this mother, this embodiment of soccer moms and luxury SUVs would handle...dare I speak the word?  Discipline.  We were all ready to see the offending drink-tosser taken across a knee and brought to his.  

But, what none of us were ready for, what none of us could have foreseen was...what...she...did...next...

She bought the little @#*% a new drink;  Mountain Dew this time.  We, the impromptu audience to this felt our mouths drying as we gaped in disbelief at this attempted placating of childish rage by the (adult?) parent who was clearly substituting the drink cup's straw for a binky.  This woman wasn't much-maligned; she was lying in the bed she'd made for herself (probably one that kid was busy pushing her out of whenever he felt like it).

As the cowed (and soggy) mother left with the Mountain Dew-suckling future reality TV star splashing through puddles of 7-Up and crunching ice underfoot, I felt my dad squeezing my arm again.  "Son, what if your daughter did that?"

My mind flashed to the raising of my child.  Her very few tantrums at ages 2 or 3 never ended with her getting her way.  Quite the opposite, actually.  Most honestly, her tantrums usually ended with her losing what she already had in hand and any hope of what was in her mind's eye.  Never had one ended with soggy shoppers and some poor sad-eyed schmuck wheeling out a mop bucket to clean up violently destroyed beverage.  And her tantrums stopped, allowing for us to interact as parent and child; you know, how God and nature intended.

I looked at my dad, "it never even would have crossed her mind, Dad.  It never even would have crossed her mind."  And, it wouldn't have.

Now, am I judging that parent?  Absolutely not; I'm judging her behavior - totally different.  I'm not fool enough to suggest that all I do as a parent is right (I mean, I appreciate a 90-minute cartoon movie as much as the next dad, and I'm guilty of the, "you better not be messing with that [insert item of your choice] because I'll come in there and check and you know I will!" shout as I watch the Gators beat Tennessee in the Swamp.  But giving in to a temper tantrum?  Why not give the kid your car keys and tie blocks to the kids shoes a-la Short Round in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom and send them on their merry way?  You're straight up that I'll judge that type of parenting.  That's not even spoiling a kid.  That's RUINING them.

Look, be a parent, not a chauffeur.  Be a parent, not a credit card.  Be a parent who meets needs, not satisfies every want.  You really want to know what your kid'll be like if you meet every want, if you get them a Mountain Dew after they tossed their 7-Up?  Remember, "Sweep the leg, Johnny!" from the Karate Kid?   That's going to be your kid.  And nobody liked Johnny in the Karate Kid.

The Wagon rolls on.  Thanks for riding shotgun.