You know what happens when I put Westley down? He takes off running. It makes no difference how familiar the location is or how close we are to a busy street. When his feet touch the ground, he's off like a shot.
Not only would Westley never in a million years stand quietly beside me while I pay way too much for a latte, he will also never hold my hand. He just flat-out refuses. "Walk! Walk!" he insists, as we get out of the car. When I tell him he has to hold my hand in the parking lot, he says "no-no" (like I've just suggested that he try chewing on broken glass) and whips his hand away faster than I can easily catch it and tries to run. I think he's trying to give me a heart attack.
If I run with my eyes closed, they really can't see me!
Some parenting rules are negotiable. In bed right at 8:00 PM? Well, not always. No cookies for breakfast? When they're healthy, whole-wheat cookies baked lovingly at home by Daddy, it can't be much worse than eating toast with jelly. But "you must hold Mommy's hand in the parking lot"? Not a rule I'm willing to fudge.
No one's going to die if Westley goes to bed at 8:15, or, God forbid, 8:30. But those cars in the parking lot? They literally weigh a ton. But I can't explain this to my toddler. I can just hold him--tightly--by the wrist, and feel like a bully, and breathe deeply through his screams of "Walk! Walk! Walk!" until we reach our destination. Or I can carry him, which I often do. Because it's just easier.
Decaf, with rice milk, please... Now just hold on a second while I move my kid to the other hip so I can get my wallet.