I was walking, but not quite out of diapers. I was out of diapers by my second birthday, my mother said, so I was in that age range between walking and 2 years old.
My mother brought me to the grocery store as usual. Apparently, I was in an incredibly restless mood and refused to be in the cart while she shopped. Figuring it was easier to appease me than fight me, she let me down with the stipulations I stayed where she could see me. It wasn't long before I drifted out of her sights, just behind a greeting card rack. I wiggled it struggling for balance. She saw the motion and knew I was okay for at least another forty five seconds while she grabbed something off her list and went after me. Safe, yes. Out of trouble, no. Seconds later she heard the ripping of tape off of plastic. It was a familiar sound, but the recognition didn't click until she saw my little arm stretch from behind the greeting card rack with a dirty diaper in hand, and promptly drop the full prize in the isle.
This was cause for emergency. She picked up and ran my bare ass at arm's length, through the store, dodging all the horrified faces, through the diaper isle, then to the bathroom to continue the diaper change I started.
Sorry Mom!
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