Target is the Devil

Ask me how many times it’s going to take for me to get it through my thick skull that I should NOT take my kids to Target at lunch time on a Sunday after church.  Ask me.  Seriously.

Apparently, whatever that number is, I haven’t reached it yet because yesterday, at 12:30pm, directly following church, I decided that I just really, really, really needed some of those big Rubbermaid storage bins.  Oh, and some fingernail polish remover.  And apparently this need overrode my previous 500 horrible experiences with Micky in Target, because in we went.

Predictably, the entire experience went something like this:

Emily and Micky decided they wanted to get the really big cart with the two seats on the back.  Really???  Why do they even make that monstrosity?  I swear it was some single man who came up with that idea or some mom who has perfect, angelic kids.  Because that nightmare has been the downfall to nearly every trip I’ve taken to Target for the past three years!  It’s huge, bulky, impossible to maneuver, and the kids never stay in it!

In my defense, I said “No.”  But the look of impending mutiny that swept over Micky’s and Emily’s faces made me quickly change my mind.  “What harm could there be this time?” I naively ask myself.  “I’m only running in to get a few quick things.”  (Oh Lord – how I lie to myself.)

So, Emily crawls into the basket, Micky picks the seat that REEKS of urine and has a broken buckle.  Then I spot some things in the $1 bin that I could use for Micky’s upcoming Birthday party.  (Yep, serious mistake #1)  DAMN TARGET AND THEIR MARKETING!!!!

I took just long enough to pause and pull a few things out of the bins (probably 30 seconds) for Renton to being looking, then Emily and Micky decided they needed the freedom to look too.  Out they start to crawl.   “No! No! No!” I manage (desperately) trying to shove them back in.  “We’re going.  We’re going.  You don’t need to get out.”  Because I know, getting out will be the undoing of the entire trip.

Too late.  They’re out.

Now I’m on a mission, and more than the note will self-destruct in a matter of 10 seconds if I don’t get my things and get out QUICKLY.

But did I mention that Target is the Devil?  Because not only are my kids easily distracted in this store, so is their Mommy.  I SWEAR I had a very specific list when I went in: bins, nail polish remover.  But before I knew it I was looking at birthday invitations, bed pillows, and God knows what else because I was already getting the glazed over shopping syndrome and Emily and Micky had were running in and out of the isles, giggling and screaming with joy over their apparent freedom while Renton tried so hard to be good for me because all he wanted was to print out some pictures from his new camera at the Kodak kiosk.  Whose kids were these and do they pump crack into the air here or something???

When Micky started throwing every possible Toy Story 3 birthday item into the cart, I had to draw the line.  “No Micky” I tried firmly.  “We don’t need these.”  I took them out and threw them back onto the shelf, trying to make a quick getaway now.   

And then it happened.  I crossed the line.  I lost my window of opportunity.  I could see the checkout lines mere inches away, but it was too late.

“Micky BIRTHDAY!!!!!”  He started screaming and collapsed into a miserable pile of woefulness spread Eagle, face down on the floor, HUGE crocodile tears streaming down his cheeks. 

I only had myself to blame. 

Now the meltdown was official.  Micky had been “talked loud to” one too many times for his sensitivities.  He began pulling furiously at my clothes, screaming for chocolate milk, screaming for his "birthday”, screaming.

 I look up at the Pizza area of Target – completely full.  There is NO WAY I am going to attempt chocolate milk in there with Micky like this.  “No Micky.”  I reasoned through the screams and punches.  “No milk when you act like this.  We are going home.”

I made it through the checkout line fending off his kicks and attempts to rip my clothes then picked Micky up to head out.   What I got in return was a swift punch to the nose and throat, a kick to the ear, chin and chest, scratches down my cheek, and an attempt to rip out my earrings and necklace.  I wrapped my arms through his legs, up around his shoulders, hands on his wrists and pulled him in toward my chest (the only hold I know that works on him in this condition).  “Ok guys.” I said calmly (I think the calm was from the looniness setting in) “Let’s go.” 

But who was I kidding?  We weren’t going anywhere because remember that HUGE cart I had?  No way I was pushing that holding Micky the way I was.  We all just stood there while Micky screamed.  Not moving.  My brain had shut down.  Renton looked up at me and said “Mommy.  I’m going to cry.  This is so hard for you.”  And I seriously almost started crying myself.

Then a Dad stepped out and said, “Can I help you push your cart?”  I looked up and saw his wife behind him smiling sympathetically, nodding her head and mouthing, “We just did this yesterday with our son.”

Sure I said, thanks.

He pushed my cart all the way out and even loaded my car for me.  Meanwhile, Micky screamed, kicked, punched and scratched the entire way.  We spent another 15 minutes just sitting in the car while Micky finished his tantrum.

When he was done, he heaved a heavy sigh, wiped his tears away, grinned a huge Micky grin then asked in his sweetest voice, “Lollipop, Mommy?”

No lollipops, but I did take them to the park for a picnic and to let out a little steam.  They all played very nicely, probably the best they’ve played in a long time, actually.  It was almost redeeming.

Then Micky pooped in his pants.  We had no spare clothes.

I blame that on Target too.