Guest Blogger: Leslie from Neverland Nook:

Though the title may sound like an episode of “Scooby Doo”, this is a true account of one of my more “challenging” days as a stay-at-home mother.  Or, as we used to say in the halcyon days of banking during my pre-child life in the corporate world, this was my “opportunity” as a mother, to “address adversity” and “affect change” in my family dynamic.  As I like to put it – not having the luxury of going to the bathroom by myself days – it was a truly, horrifically, crap-tastic day.  Mothers of the world:  you know these days.

It began with an innocent trip to Target.  I had three things to buy. What transpired will go down in the books – and my life will serve as a cautionary tale (and birth control) for the un-initiated.  The children will remain anonymous – as in the legal system – perpetrators can’t be named in the press if they are underage, or at least that’s what they say on Law & Order: SVU.

We enter Target and Child #1 (boy, 4.5 years old) makes a greedy beeline to the dollar section, knocking over (I can’t make this stuff up) a display of sunscreen, and a woman using a walker.  Child #2 (girl, 2 years old) is chortling with laughter.  As I am, red-faced, picking up various sizes of sunscreen bottles while apologizing profusely, my son darts toward the baby section – pulling every food item off the shelf and asking for it to eat as a snack, as, “his baby sister is hungry.”  I cave, buy two versions of baby food for children (beware parents:  yogurt melts are crack for youngsters), and after they demolish them, they both start whining for water:  

Son, in response to my admonishment that we had water in the car:  “I really can’t wait.  I really can’t.  Im soooooooooo extremely thirsty, Mommy.  Realllllllly!  Sooooooo thirsty!”  Daughter:  “Wa-wa!  Want wa-waaaaaa!”, while my fellow shoppers in the aisle glare at me accusingly.  Surely, I must be starving and dehydrating them on a regular basis. Finally, I cannot suffer the whines and glares anymore, and I buy a 10 pack of mini-water bottles, and distribute two bottles accordingly.  In less than three minutes, I hear, simultaneously, “Wet!  Mess!  WET!” (Child #2) and a loud thump, where a water bottle (that was sooooo extremely pined for a few moments ago, and so necessary) was being used as a pretend truck along the aisles, and then dropped on the floor.  Though I don’t typically apply the five-second rule to store aisles, I didn’t care and I let the offender (Child #1) retrieve the bottle and drink from it.

Child #1 insists upon going to the Men’s bathroom.  Not gonna happen, as there is a family bathroom open.  Child #2, drops her bottle on the bathroom floor (after driving it around the cart handles, making “vroooom, vrooooooom” noises – thanks for the positive role model, Child #1), screams at 800 decibels while the sound reverberates in this tiny Target family bathroom for 20 minutes, while Child #1 is sitting happily on the toilet, looking around, examining his shoes and asking questions about the Horse Head Nebula and combine harvesters – all under the guise of having to go the bathroom.  Which I see no evidence of.  This phenomenon is known as “The Phantom Poo” – in which you have to race to the bathroom with your children, prompted by much foot-to-foot dancing and exclamations of having to go “extremely badly,” only to sit there for 30 minutes, while aforementioned child asks numerous annoying, existential questions that I don’t have the patience for – really, at anytime, but especially not at the end of the Shopping Trip from Hell.  

I headed home 3 hours later with only the intention of buying 3 things and had 1.75 glasses of wine, at 1:15 in the afternoon.  Don’t judge me.  I would like to add, that on top of the awful behavior of my children, I was suffering from a delicious sinus / ear infection, and after I buckled everyone in and sat in the car, sweating and anxious and annoyed, I realized that I really wouldn’t have minded if someone euthanized me. It would have been an act of mercy and kindness, really, at that point.

Please, mothers of the world, unite and tell me your crappiest shopping story.  (fine print:  please make me feel better about my life and my horrible children)  Thanks!

Leslie