My daughter decided to humiliate me in the grocery store the other day. Our five minute stop to pick up mayonnaise and relish turned into a lesson in how to avoid eye contact and keep my face from turning red while my sweet 3-year-old decided to have a public meltdown, complete with screaming and tears and howls of imaginary pain.

Wondering what set her off? It was the cupcake display, conveniently placed at her precise eye level, between the pasta and condiment isles. Did I want to spend $7 on six store cupcakes? No, I did not. Maybe I could have bought some tantrum prevention with that $7. But my nearly 10 years of raising children has taught me when to choose my battles and when to cave. And a quick trip to the grocery store was not going to be a chance for my preschooler to score something off the shopping list. My apologies to the fellow shoppers. But really this was all the store's fault, with their strategically placed over frosted sweet treats.

I will admit my daughter caught me off guard. We'd gone in quickly for said condiments, and also to pick up supplies for making home-made play dough. I thought the dough project would have been enough to spark her interest and speed along the errand. When I realized she was to the point of self detonating, I had to think and act fast.

Lucia is my third, youngest child. My oldest is soon turning 9, so I've been at this parenting business a while. I've gleaned some wisdom in that time that makes me feel like I've earned a few parenting badges.

In the first place, tantrums seem to be a thing of the past. My daughter is often so caught up in the shuffle of her older siblings - getting them fed and out the door in the morning, walking to the bus stop to pick them up, shuttling them off to sports practices - she is not one to make a scene. We just don't have that kind of time.

It seems since her third birthday she's been learning to assert herself, and learning to push my buttons, in her own unique way.

So there I was, picking out mayonnaise and trying to locate the jarred relish, while she hollered about cupcakes. We dodged a few shoppers, and I offered a sheepish smile. Lucia, with her full head of curly brown hair, did strike some sympathy. I went about picking what I needed, acting cool and collected, ignoring the screams, knowing full well that engaging her would only feed her rage. I was calm and quiet, but inside I was yearning to get out of there fast. I accidentally grabbed artificially sweetened relish that had to be exchanged the next day (without the child).

I finally made my big move, which was to turn away from her, and walk determined down the aisle toward the check out lines. I gambled that Lucia would panic and come after me, which she did. No words were exchanged at this point. When she decided to linger by the food isles instead of the check out line, I took her by the arm and gently force-walked her with me to check out. She grumpily complied. Still no words from me, the screaming continuing from her. I have never in my life rung up food quicker at a self-check out line.

I grabbed my shopping bag in one hand, and scooped up my screaming child with the other. I offered a few more smiles begging pity from customers, and made it out with my humility semi-intact.

The tantrum ended by the time we made it home. I cooked up some instant noodles, poured some apple cider, and got the ingredients out for the play dough project. We did not speak of the cupcakes again. Inside, I felt spent.

Tantrums are an inevitable fact of life, whether you are parenting your first or fifth child. Maybe another parent would have bought the cupcakes and enjoyed some quiet shopping. And maybe if I'd been buying a week's worth of groceries, I would have done just that. But children will survive a few minutes of screaming in disappointed agony, and so will you. As for the shoppers, always remember that the madness ends once you leave the store. Someone else gets to take it home.

MARIA GONZALEZ LIVES IN EAST LYME WITH HER HUSBAND AND THREE CHILDREN. YOU CAN REACH HER AT LLORALINDO@GMAIL.COM.