We have color enough, thank you.

The salty, chewy softness I devoured hit the right spots. It was lunch, and a reward for the shopping nightmare. It wasn't just the cup-and-a-half of poop I must have cleaned from my son's bottom in the parking lot at Whole Foods. Poop happens (it was really, really a lot, though). It started when my son didn't want to ride in the cart. When do I let the meltdowns commence? Not as soon as we hit the first store. I guard against the meltdown by allowing my son to walk around. He checks every bin of beans. I put him in the cart. He fusses to get out. He opens and closes cooler doors. He picks up a clamshell of muffins. "Gugays!" he cries, showing them to me, and I know that they are not cupcakes, and more importantly, they are not going to fit his special diet, so I try to take them away. He maneuvers around a display of baked goods, I hear a clatter, and realize I am going to buy a six-pack of muffins. Okay. We move on. I realize about five minutes into our visit that I am not going to accomplish much with him, but must accomplish a few things so that he has gluten- and dairy-free snacks to take to school tomorrow. So we get to the checkout lane with a pthalate-free boat toy, a handheld mirror, a package of naan, and $60 of product I actually want to buy. As I am getting my credit card out of my purse, distracted, I realize he has run off. The store has sliding automatic doors, and I don't see him, so I leave the register in pursuit, and outside, a kindly stranger has him by the arm. I walk up, harassed and thankful, take my son. "He really got away," I say, sheepishly. "Yes. And someone could have run off with him," she says. "I know," I say, grimly. She keeps giving me the "do you really understand how close that was?" Look. I just stare back. She smiles weakly and says something like, "Okay, take care." I don't really hear because I am struggling with Stefan, trying to get back inside to get the groceries I left. Thankfully they put back the boat, naan, and mirror for me. I wouldn't and couldn't have made it. A man comes up to me with a very-clearly rehearsed story about how he needs me to meet his wife somewhere to use my debit card to pay for gas. I tell him I can't help. Why couldn't I just tell the lady, "Thank you," and leave it at that? Because I wanted to say more. I wanted to say, listen, I came to this store today BECAUSE my son is autistic. And sometimes, having an autistic son makes shopping difficult. Do you understand? Also, I think I need to get a child leash. People will judge me for that, too. Sigh. Proceed to Costco. We have to get wipes, and some other things. Once again, he will not ride in the cart, and if he walks, he wanders. The only position he'll allow me to transport in is with me holding him in my arms, his bottom resting on the handle of the cart. People look at me funny for this, and I think, "It's this or a meltdown, people. I'm sure I know which you'd prefer." We make it all the way around the store, and I'm starting to get frazzled. Twice he has gotton down, and plopped on the ground, refusing to budge. I am sweating from the exertion of trying to hold him still as I navigate the cart. Front of store, the employee tells me that wipes are all the way in the back. "Shoot," I say. I don't usually express my frustration aloud over things like this. But honestly, why are they all the way in the back? Why aren't they in the front with all the other medical/toiletries like they are in Sam's Club? Ugh. The squeals and screams heard throughout the warehouse are coming from my boy. People turn to look. I know they just want to see if everything's okay. At one point I stop, near the almonds, to let him rest. He sits on the ground. I pray, "Dear Jesus, *please* let us find a short line at this store." Why are the lines always so long at Costco? Why isn't there an "autism line" for kids who unravel so easily? Why did I even bring him with me today? I did it because tomorrow is his first day of school, and I'm going to miss him. I wanted to get him prepared as best I could, which meant some shopping. Close to the checkout lane, which thankfully, is only one deep, I swear I see the same lady that helped me at Whole Foods. I am not sure whether her seeing me again, in this situation, gives her more understanding, or more opportunity for judgement. Because now, I'm unloading my groceries onto the belt, and Stefan is running off again, this time to the nearby cigarette cage. Bringing him back brings more wrestling. The gentlemen in line behind me kindly steer my cart toward the cashier because my hands are fully of my writhing 3-year-old. The cashier kindly offers to have someone help me with the cart. Stefan screams and struggles all the way out to the car. Before that, the man helping me with the cart asks if a coloring book would help? I just shake my head, conserving energy. It's actually laughable, but my sense of humor is completely smothered by chagrin and crisis management. He still stops to get the coloring book, makes sure I have the crayons. I thank him for the gesture more than the gift. He helps me load the stuff we need for raising our screamer: wipes, grapes, lunch meat, spinach. Stefan calms down once he is in his carseat in the van. I don't understand the cause of the meltdown, exactly. Stefan is largely a mystery to me, though I know he is not mysterious to the Lord. All I can do is put my head down on the steering wheel and rest; I must, or I will not be able to drive home. Shopping was a workout today. I shall have Taco Bell, I think. And I did.