I braced myself for our annual visit to Wal-Mart having been disappointed by the lack of back-to-school shoe options in my daughter’s obviously ridiculously common sizes. We’ll have to get cracking on that “affix sixth toe” assignment asap.

I knew Wal-Mart would have what we needed to survive at least the first week of school, I just wasn’t sure if I had it in me to work my way through the crowds, children throwing tantrums, people still wearing their water park bathing suits from the weekend. As it turns out, I was the only one drawing any negative energy.

It started innocently. In fact, upon entering the building, I noticed something I hadn’t experienced before. Wal-Mart wasn’t busy and I seemed to be the only one carting three, young children around. It was so quiet, I even allowed the baby to walk rather than have her belted into a five point harness to keep her as far from the nearly toppling door crasher displays as possible.

We stopped at the front entrance to pet the ceramic seeing eye-dog that doubled as a donation bank and I handed the girls two quarters each while explaining the importance of giving and while this particular dog couldn’t bark, he sure appreciated their small contribution to service. I was feeling great about the lesson the girls had learned. The greeters were approachable, handing out smiley face stickers, nobody threatened to search my purse or put me through a metal detector or spray me with mist to prove the presence of gun-shot residue. Wal-Mart was not how I remembered it. We were going to be just fine.

I figured I would tempt fate and even visit the grocery section to pick up some apple sauce as the girls had reminded me we were out.

Then it happened. We hit the shoe aisle and the baby recognized where she was. She was in Wal-Mart, the place where babies throw tantrums for no particular reason and parents yell at their kids. I think someone said “Rollback” and she had some sort of seizure and went into a trance.

The first and only fit which lasted the duration of our stay focused solely around a pair of what I can only assume were Helen Roper’s slippers circa 1982 Three’s Company. Chloe began to scream when I would not allow her to try on Mrs. Roper’s feathery flops in women’s size eleven. Eventually I caved. What harm could allowing a 21 month old try on a pair of throwback slippers really do? Apparently loads. This one was going to require a full keg from the Regal Beagle to help regain my sanity. I wonder if Larry is still a decent drinking buddy.

The fit started first with tears followed by a tossing of the slippers, the shoes she came in with, stuff out of the cart. There was snot, there was no tissue, there were seal barks, there was no water.

Her demands became preposterous. First the slippers, then, “Sauce! Sauce! Sauce!”

So now I’m supposed to crack open an apple sauce and feed it to you in the shoe aisle? Shall I use one of Janet or Chrissy’s stilettos to puncture the hole in the foil lid? This was getting out of control and I was considering a visit to the hammock aisle.

Then it happened. This woman carting by made eye contact with me and rolled her eyes in disgust at the crying baby, my lack of compassion, my t-shirt that had been pulled by the baby down over one side of my bra, the apple sauce tease, my choice in footwear, Mrs. Roper’s slippers tossed into of all places, a passing aisle, the other two kids who were trying on tap shoes and NOT running shoes as had been discussed.

I wanted to chase the woman with a shoe and hit her over the head with it. That’s exactly why Wal-Mart installed security cameras in the first place, for crazy back-to-school shoppers like me. I was where I belonged, where I deserved to be.

Until next year.