What Happens at Target Stays at Target

                I think it’s time we all band together and start demanding that what happens at Target stays at Target.  Yes, I know there are some things that can’t stay at Target—like the insane amounts of stuff we buy, the plastic bags we tote it all home in because we always forget to bring the reusable totes into the store from the trunk of our vans, and of course the bills for all this stuff.  But the experience?  That should stay at Target—never to be spoken of again.

                Why, you ask?  Well, let me begin the explanation by comparing Target to Las Vegas.  For us moms of small kids, the similarities between Target and Vegas are astounding.  You’ll see us on the first day of school, strolling slowly through the aisles, sipping our still-hot Starbucks, casually browsing the shoes or testing fall nail colors and grinning like we just won the lottery.  Seriously—have you ever seen the expression of pure joy on someone’s face as they win a huge jackpot in Vegas?  No?  Well, let me tell ya, it’s the same expression you’ll see on the face of any mom with small children when she is shopping alone at Super Target.

                However, when we take our kids with us, the scene resembles something straight out of The Hangover.  We look (and feel) confused, agitated, and distracted.  Our hair and clothes look as though we slept on the roof of a hotel.  We are likely wearing mismatched socks, and if you listen closely, you’ll probably hear us call our kids by each other’s names at least once. 

                My point is, like Vegas, the Target shopping experience can either be really great, or really bad, but whereas the Vegas trip’s success hinges on gambling wins, the Target trip’s success is entirely dependent on whether we’re shopping without our kids (win!) or with them.

Why am I so insistent that it all stays at Target?  Let me describe for you some of my recent personal experiences there.

                Early in my pregnancy with Daughter #3, I awoke one morning to find that I did not feel like vomiting.  Hallelujah!  Certain the nausea wouldn’t be absent for long and desperately in need of basic household goods, I quickly (i.e. 90 minutes later, which you know is ridiculously fast if you’ve ever tried getting two small children ready to go anywhere) piled my daughters, then 2 and 4, into the minivan.  I was prepared for this trip—sippy cups for both girls, backup outfit for the youngest, fruit snacks as a bribe and snack traps filled with those surprisingly good baby wheat puffs.

                I’ll spare you the details of this shopping spree and fast forward to the point where we had only three small items left on the list and we were in the far back corner of the store.  As you know if you’ve ever taken small kids to Target, this is the exact point when one child will have to go to the bathroom, which is exactly what happened with us.  I politely asked Sophia if she could hold it for a few minutes because we were ALMOST done and she informed me that no, she had been holding it.  Then, in a much louder voice, she announced that if I didn’t take her to the bathroom right away, there would be a “poop explosion” all over our cart (yep, her words). 

                I sprinted to the front entrance of the store as fast as possible while pushing a cart with one wonky wheel and a toddler who has learned to unfasten her safety restraint if you don’t keep your hand wrapped firmly around it.  Unable to take our full cart into the bathroom, I parked it by a checkout lane, lifted the four year old out of the cart and placed her on the ground, unfastened and removed the toddler from the cart, then unburied my purse and diaper bag from the cart, grabbed the four year old’s hand, and dragged her into the bathroom, silently praying the explosion hadn’t yet occurred.

                “Emergency,” I mumbled to the lady slowly heading to a stall as I brushed past her, ushering Sophia into the closest stall.  Still holding Samantha, I tugged Sophia’s pants down and then reached for toilet paper to lay on the seat as a barrier.  There was none.  I peeked under the stall to see if anyone was next to us who could hand us a spare roll, but the surrounding stalls were empty.  I unlocked the door, pulled Sophia’s pants back up, and dragged the whole crew to the next stall.

                As I locked the door, Sophia informed me she no longer had to go.  A rookie mom might have accepted this, but I knew better.  “That’s okay,” I said.  “But you’re going to sit on this potty until something comes out of your butt.”

                I ignored the snickering from a few stalls down, covered the toilet seat with paper, then pulled Sophia’s pants down.  I turned to hang my purse and diaper bag on the back of the door, but of course the hook had broken off.  So I awkwardly lifted Sophia onto the potty, still holding both of my bags and the squirmy toddler. 

                “Privacy!”  She shrieked.

                Samantha and I turned to face the door.  Sophia began singing “I see the light” from Tangled.  By this point, Samantha was flailing wildly, wanting out of my arms, so I offered her some puffs from her snack trap to keep her occupied.  An eternity later, I heard some noises which indicated Sophia was done. 

                I turned and handed Sophia some toilet paper.  She used it then requested more.  I handed her more, and she abruptly hopped off the toilet, spun around, and stuck her butt in my face so I can “check” if she had been thorough.  Of course, she hadn’t, so I set Samantha down and finished wiping Sophia.  A nanosecond later, I turned, just in time to see Samantha bend down and pick a Cheerio off the ground.  The next few moments passed in slow motion, as I yanked up Sophia’s pants with one hand while desperately trying to knock the dirty floor Cheerio out of Samantha’s hand before it reached her mouth, but of course I was too late.    

                I cringed, cursed silently, then tried to convince myself that maybe, just maybe the floor had been cleaned right before we walked into the bathroom.  And that if not, maybe she would only get those good germs that allegedly help build a child’s immune system. 

                “What’s wrong Mommy?”  Sophia asked in her sweetest voice possible. 

                “Samantha dropped some of her Cheerios on the ground and then ate one,” I explained, gesturing to the Cheerios remaining on the floor.

                Sophia’s face wrinkled instantly into that familiar angry expression.  “Why did she get Cheerios?  You only gave me puffs!”

                As the realization hit me that my child had eaten someone else’s food off the floor of a public restroom, my morning sickness returned.  I lunged at the toilet but since I still hadn’t flushed since Sophia went, I hesitated and ended up missing.  I mean, some of it hit the toilet, but some of it landed in my hair and on my shirt.  I wiped things up as best as I can with two now-crying children, a diaper bag, purse, and hands in desperate need of washing, flushed the toilet, then headed to the sinks.

                Five minutes later, we were as clean as we were going to get, so we left the bathroom and headed straight for our full shopping cart, determined to pay and get home as fast as possible.  Except the cart was gone.  Vanished into thin air.  We searched for a few minutes, unsuccessfully, and then gave up.  Target-1, Mallov family-0.

                This was likely my most traumatic Target experience, but sadly not the only scary one.  Other incidents involved spit up, diaper blow outs, children nearly falling out of the cart, my pregnant belly knocking over an entire rack of shirts as I tried to squeeze between rows, and a VERY pregnant and hormonal me having a full meltdown at Customer Service over a coupon.  There is always something dropped from my cart (usually a necessary item of clothing, like a shoe, or a critical possession like a pacifier) on trips with the kids, and often stuff gets swiped off the shelves by children in the cart and I don’t discover the stowaways until we reach the check out. 

                So what about you?  What are your worst shopping mishaps?