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Last week, on my way to the lake to go kayaking, I stopped at Bell’s Grocery Store in Jefferson to get a deli sandwich to take along for lunch.

Bell’s is a small North Georgian chain, much smaller and more limited than your Krogers and Publixes, but they’re close, and they have good deli sandwiches.

Ahead of me in the checkout line was a young mother with a little boy of about two. The boy was babbling at full volume. Dennis the Menace was written all over him.

Dennis was seated in the cart, facing me. He shut up when I got in line behind him. He eyed me critically, taking in my NASA baseball cap, UGA t-shirt, red swim shorts, and blue mesh water shoes.

Finally, with a sour expression, he made eye contact. I gave him a cheerful smile.

His mother was the harried type. She fretted and fumbled with her purse, mumbling to herself as she struggled to fish out some cash. The checkout lady sighed.

“Mommy! Mommy! Let me hold it!” cried Dennis, straining to grab the cash from his mother’s hand.

Mom held the money out of his reach. “Not now, Brandon. Be still and let Mommy pay for the groceries.”

Aha. The child was a Brandon, not a Dennis.

“Give it to me, Mommy! I want to pay for the groceries!”

The mom hesitated, stuffed the bills back in her purse, and withdrew a credit card instead. “I think I’ll use this,” she said to the checkout lady, who gave her a whatever look.

When the mom reached forward to swipe the card, Brandon reached out with lightning speed and deftly snatched it from her hand.

“Brandon, give me the card.” said the mom. Brandon held the card behind his back.

She tried several times to grab it, but Brandon was too fast.

“Would you like a sucker?” the checkout lady asked. Her mouth was smiling, but her eyes were not.

“No!” he yelled.

“Mommy, I know how to pay! Let me pay!”

The mother looked tired. She turned to the checkout lady. “I changed my mind,” she said. “I’ll pay cash.”

She took the bills from her purse again and held them out for the checkout lady. Simultaneously, Brandon struck like a cobra, intent on grabbing the cash, too.

But the checkout lady was faster. She snatched the money from the mom’s hand and held it in the air, out of little Brandon’s reach.

“I knew the little fella would try that,” she said, sounding smug while trying not to.

Brandon, defeated, began to cry. His mother put down her purse and moved close to comfort him. While the checkout lady made change, the mom cooed and whispered to her son.

Through it all, I detected no anger or frustration from the mom. Fatigue and resignation, yes, but no anger and no frustration. Not a good sign.

She collected her change, placed her groceries in the cart, and wheeled off toward the exit. Brandon was still snuffling and pouting. She continued to talk softly to him.

After they were out of range, I said to the checkout lady, “That lady has her hands full.”

“That lady needs to snatch a knot in that boy’s tail,” she huffed. “She needs to put a stop to that nonsense, for his own good.”

“Yeah, it’ll only get worse,” I said.

“If that child was mine, he would act up that way exactly one time!” she said indignantly. “I would tan his little hide! My kids learned their manners, and that boy needs to learn his!”

Brandon’s mom, I suspected, was incapable of tanning his hide, or of teaching him much of anything. She seemed terribly weary, like a woman who was in over her head.

The checkout lady rang up my deli sandwich, and I paid her and turned to leave, but she wasn’t through.

“If she doesn’t do something about that boy, he’ll be in a world of trouble when he starts school.”

I nodded my agreement while edging sideways toward the exit.

“And it’s never the child’s fault! When you see a child like that, it’s the fault of the parents, every time!”

Oddly enough, my son Dustin has expressed that same sentiment. Dustin, a former juvenile probation officer, and a former detective in the Domestic Violence unit, knows whereof he speaks.

“Maybe you should make a deal with his mom,” I said. “She could pay you to straighten the boy out. From what I saw, I don’t think she can handle him.”

The checkout lady paused to consider the idea.

“I like it,” she said. “The Brat Whisperer.”

“You might end up on TV,” I said.

“That’s fine with me. It’s bound to pay more than Bell’s.”