Shut up

Nine minutes. The kid screamed for nine straight minutes. I don’t believe it took a single breath while it short circuited and melted down all over the concrete pavement of tbe dirty wholesale food warehouse. It seems it dove straight down below its breaking point the way a pelican does when it enters the water. Face first, mouth open, dry eyes squinting, tongue slicing through everyone’s last nerves with its sharp and calculated caterwauling. An electronic tablet sat a solid three feet away, cracked screen open to a brain rotting video of a toilet throwing up fecal matter into another toilet.

The first minute crept by.

“Whoa. Kid’s got some lungs.” I commented to my husband, who kept himself busy studying the back of a cereal box.

“Hmm?”

Prickles of irritation began to erupt under my scalp. “The kid. He's loud.”

“Mmm. That’s got a lot of sugar,” he shook his head with disapproval and slid the box back onto the stack where it came from.

The second minute wormed by.

“Damn he’s still going.” I announced, hoping my husband would be 'team me.' He wasn’t. He continued browsing the dairy section while mumbling something about coconut flakes and vanilla whipped cream, shuffling around in the brisk walk-in-fridge with a pace so quick, there was a sizable gap between us. It probably looked like we were strangers.

Three minutes crawled by.

The kid managed to turn himself into a siren, wailing high and low notes, high and low. High. And. Low. I laughed. “Whoo-whoo-whoo” I mimicked near the open refrigerators, where they store the cheese.

Four eyes (six, if you count the old woman's glasses) inspected me as if I was an insect who had no right to vocalize my obvious discomfort in what fast became a giant medieval torture chamber.

I rolled my two eyes and decided they more than likely couldn’t make out the kid's shrieks as well as I could, since the pair were about as old as lead based dust from the Crimean period.

Four minutes crept by.

We browsed the meat section, husband by the cold cuts, me by the organically labeled, farm fed chicken packages.

“Why is it still shrieking?” I groaned to no one in particular, knowing full damned well the kid fully looked like it came from the XY tribe, yet not wanting to offend any more butt hurt people who might be lurking near me. I wasn't about to collect more glares for using a gender its parent may or may not wish for it to go by.

My husband regarded the old musty couple who scowled at me while I was alone in front of the wheels of roquefort, with an air of friendliness, and dropped packets of turkey slices into the cart below him.

Five minutes skulked by.

I fought the urge to walk to the aisle and stare at them. I wondered why she believed her precious child had the right to disrupt the whole store. Didn't she care that we all had feelings? That some people experience PTSD when listening to high pitched screeches? Wasn't she taught manners? That she and her kid weren't the only ones existing in this world?

I moved closer to the comfort of my husband, and put my arm around his waist. "Thank God none of our eight kids act like that."

He looked over my left shoulder towards the offensive sounds. I thought, this is it, he's about to acknowledge the big wailing elephant in the store that I've been stuck on. Instead, he shouted, "there's the mayonnaise."

Six ear splitting minutes shove splinters down my spine.

“Hey kid, six seven. Six seven, kid.” I yelled over its frantic antics. The kid jumped up with a grin, wiped its alligator tears, dusted off its dirt covered clothes, fixed the shattered screen on its tablet and changed it from toilet fodder to a channel offering wholesome educational material. Then, it measured both imaginary numbers in its hands, proudly turning itself into a human scale. Then I clapped, it clapped. We all clapped. Everyone formed a ring around the store and clapped, united by the high intelligence behind the obvious humor of those two particular numerals.

Only kidding. He continued screaming.

I glanced around at the other people shopping. People winced and grimaced and glared and held their fingers over the holes of their ears, but no one said anything. Was everyone being considerate and giving the inconsiderate mother some grace? Was I the asshole who wanted her to do her job and take care of her kid?

Seven disgusting minutes scraped by.

"Bruh. That mom needs to take her kid outside." I opined, not caring about the glares and stares people were handing to me. I still held fast to my husband's back, which gave me strength. He might not have known it, but he kept my fraying nerves together with his soothing love magic. We mosied into the snack aisle, and my husband slowed down enough to look over at me.

"You want something?"

"Yes." I answer. "I want Caillou over there to shut up."

"Just ignore it." My hubby says and tosses a bag of granola bars into the wagon It lands on the eggs. I rushed over and inspected them to make sure they were all intact. They were.

"How?" I asked.

"Zen out."

"How?" I asked again.

He plucked a shiny package of European crafted truffles, winked at me, and lowered them into the shopping cart, then shrugged his shoulders and kept walking.

Eight painful minutes poked me in the eyes and punched me in my face.

We stood in line at the cash registers. I'm not sure if the cashier felt my energy imploring her to move faster, but I like to think she did. While we waited the kid continued to be consumed in the fiery whims of its own fragile emotions. Screaming as if it were in the confines of its own house. Balking as if it were all alone. Screaming like some horror movie victim being chased from continent to continent. I imagined its mom, standing there scrolling through social media, yawning, taking selfies.

The sounds in the 140,000 square foot buy-it-in-bulk-bunker made me imagine a room full of aggresive animals cage fighting while dozens of kids with ragged fingernails clawed on massive green and black chalkboards.

"Zen out." I chanted to myself. "Zen out. Zen out."

Nine minutes trudged by.

“Mom stop.” My middle child finally decided to respond to my numerous text complaints.

"Stop what?"

"You're stressing yourself out."

"No, the kid is stressing me out. And the mom isn't doing anything to help it. She's letting it scream and scream and scream."

"It's okay, mom." My middle child typed. "Not everyone is a good mom like you. Say a little prayer and give them some grace. That's what you always tell us."

"I love you," I text and add three heart emojis. I cradle my phone to my chest and smile. My kid thinks I'm a good mom. That's so nice.

An old woman zipped through the doors with a wagon and headed straight to the shrieking kid and its mom. "Shut up!" She yelled. "We can hear you all the way down the street! Shut it up right now!"

The cries stopped. The whole store went quiet. My eyebrows lifted.

"Wow. Zen out, lady." I said. "Zen the fuck out."

* * *

© M.Lee / All Rights Reserved (3/6/2026)