Muddy Wheelchair And The Quest For Chocolate Pudding

  One afternoon, while my mother was taking a nap I decided it would be a good idea to push myself to the store in my wheelchair.

  My dad was at work and after a long day of taking three children with her as she completed the back to school ritual of class supplies shopping, shoe shopping and a little grocery shopping, my mother was exhausted of listening to three kids squabble in the car, in the store and in the car again. So when we arrived home she sat us in front of the TV, chose a show for us to watch, because naturally we would fight about that and told us not to bug her for an hour so she could have a quick nap.

  An hour goes by faster now that I'm older, but at nine years old, an hour felt like four, and I didn't have a lot of patience -- my younger siblings had even less.

"I want a squeezy juice and a pbj," my little sister declared after a few minutes of watching cartoons.

"Mom said not to wake her up for an hour," I reminded her.

"How long is a hour?" she asked.

"When this cartoon is off." I said.

After a few more minutes of watching the cartoon . . .

"I'm hungry," my sister whined.

  She got up, intending to wake our mother, so I hopped into my wheelchair and wheeled toward her.

"Okay, I'll help you get food."

"I want some pickles," my brother chimed.

"Fine," I said, "Can you help me get them? Because I think they're at the top."

  My brother followed us into the kitchen. The pantry had two tiers of shelves. In the bottom tier my mother stored the cereal, instant oatmeal and peanut butter so that I could access them easily. The loaf of bread sat on the table and the jelly was in the second shelf of the refrigerator door. I made my sister a peanut butter and jelly sandwich while my brother retrieved the jar of pickles from the top tier of the pantry.

"Can you get me a chocolate pudding cup?" I asked my brother, as he set the jar of pickles on the table.

  He climbed back up into the pantry and looked on the top shelf. My mom stored the pudding cups in the top tier, because I would have eaten them all in a day had they'd been in my reach. Every now and then I had my brother sneak me one.

"There isn't any." my brother announced and hopped down from the shelf. "Mom forgot to buy some."

Oh for the love of chocolate!

"Really, Did you look in the back?" I asked, hopping it was a joke.

"The shelf is empty, I'm not lying." My brother argued.

  We all went back into the living room, me sulking at not having a pudding cup and frustrated that there wouldn't be one in my lunch box the next day. The cartoon was still playing, but I knew that even when mom woke up, she probably wouldn't want to go to the store again. She was already cross with us for squabbling today. There was nothing for it, I'd have to go to the corner store and buy the pudding cups myself.

  I went into my room and grabbed my piggy bank. I recently earned a five dollar bill for straight A's on my report card. I put the money in my betty-boop purse, instructed my brother to watch our sister and pushed myself out the door.

  The distance to the corner store was not half a mile (if I recall correctly), but pushing myself in the hot late afternoon sun, in my wheelchair, made it a trip across perilous, gravel filled terrain. Once I got to the end of my driveway the gravel gave way to a side road of grass, rocks and mud. For half of the journey I did good to avoid the sticky spots of wet dirt which were slightly smaller than my front tires. Fortunately there were few houses on my street and no traffic at the moment so I didn't worry about stranger danger.

  Despite the ache in my arms from pushing, I felt a sense of pride in being able to take myself to the store to buy pudding with the money I earned. I considered telling my dad about my accomplishment. I knew my parents would probably be upset. Just last year, I got in trouble for taking my little sister out in the middle of the night to 'run away from home,' but this time was different. I was leaving during the day, intending to return, I wasn't putting my siblings in danger and I stayed on the side of the road instead of walking in the ditch where broken bottles (and probably snakes) were. However, I was sure they would be impressed and proud of me once I made it home. Why would they want to punish me for being so grown-up?

  I was so busy patting myself on the back and feeling independent -- I didn't see the mud hole in time for my wheelchair to sink into it. I tried to push myself out, but after three attempts I gave up. I got out of the chair, moved behind it and gave it a shove, but the chair wouldn't budge. I moved to the front and pulled on the foot rest. The wheelchair rolled forward, but as I pulled it out, the tires were caked with mud. I got back in the chair and attempted to push myself again, but the muddy tires were slick on the stretch of dirt that covered the side road. If I wanted to get to the store, I would have to push my wheelchair the rest of the way.

  I got out of the chair, put my purse in the seat, wiped my muddy hands on my pink overalls and began pushing my chair the rest of the way to the corner store. Just as the store was within sight, I heard my brother and sister shouting,

"Sis! hey, wait!" my brother shouted. I turned to see him and our sister running toward me.

"What are you doing here?" I demanded, "I told you to wait at home. I'll be back in a minute."

"But tha' cartoon is OVER." my sister emphasized.

"We came to tell you so you wouldn't get in trouble when mom wakes up," my brother explained.

"I still have to buy pudding," I whined, "but then I got stuck in the mud."

"Okay, get in your chair, I'll push you there fast and we can hurry up and go back before mom gets up."

  I got in my chair and my brother pushed me as fast as he could across the parking lot, with our little sister running behind him. The store was owned by a kind elderly man who my parents were friendly with. It was this same person who alerted authorities the night my sister and I showed up by the gas pumps at midnight. After that night, my mom gave him our phone number in case one or more of her children should be seen wondering around alone.

  My siblings and I browsed the isles (them begging me to buy candy and beef jerky) until I found the pudding. I grabbed a four pack of chocolate, took it to the counter and handed him my five dollars.

"Where are your mom and dad?" he asked.

"Outside," I lied.

  When he realized that neither of our parents were with us, he made us wait by the counter. He picked up the phone and dialed the number to my house. A few minutes later my mom entered the store, sweaty and out of breath.

"Where is the car?" I asked.

"We are walking, because I want to have a long serious talk with the three of you," my mom said sternly.

  Mom purchased a few juice bottles for us and put my pudding back,

"You get more of those for just as much at the grocery store -- which I'll do tomorrow," she said.

  We started our walk back home, with her pushing my wheelchair. The lecture she promised us started off as a stern rebuke, but the cooler temperatures of the oncoming evening seemed to abate her anger at us. I think she was just glad that we were all safe. We ended up walking to the end of the street and back, my siblings and I trying to catch fireflies that began to appear in the twilight. Finally it was time to return home so mom could make dinner. As we entered our driveway I made a mental note in my head: Next time, leave the wheelchair at home.