Target makes me act like I’m clinically insane. I’ve seen it happen to other parents, too.
There are several things that happen when I enter Target:
1. My ability to control spending goes out the window. I become hypnotized by the red and white displays.
2. I go in for one bottle of ketchup and come out with a cart filled with random crap. Today it was: a pack of pacifiers (my child has never been interested in pacifiers), four mini pizzas that have no nutrition label because they are not made of real food material,
mommy porn Us Weekly because I like to feed the Kardashian machine, socks, two t-shirts (one of which my child left wearing, but I’ll get to that later), two bottles of ketchup, Lightning McQueen sippy cups, bacon (trying to get one kid to stop eating chicken nuggets), children’s ibuprofen, and two Matchbox cars I wasn’t able to pry out of the 2-year old’s hand.
3. Someone for sure sees my boobs. If I had a nickel for every time I’ve whipped out a tit at Target, I wouldn’t be wearing Merino jeans.
Really, I try to masquerade as someone who is normal. We start off our trips to Target nicely. The 2-year old is strapped in the cart. I’m smiling, a little zombie-ish because of all the red and white marketing materials
that make me behave like an advertiser’s whore.
What happens next often depends on T2YO. Sometimes we make it out of Target unscathed.
Not today. Today I made the mistake of leaving T2YO’s bottle in the car (yeah, yeah, he still drinks from a bottle, so sue me).
As soon as we were too far into the store to run back out, T2YO starts chanting bobble bobble bobble bobble prease prease thank you. (Internal dialogue: Shit. I forgot the damn bottle. Think fast. At least he said please. That’s pretty good.)
Soon his chants turn into howls BOB! BLE BOB! BLE BOB! BLE. Every bald man in Target named Bob turns his head (or is it: Every bald man named Bob in Target turns his head? Oh, fuck it. The point is that there was a lot of bald head turning.)
We just happen to be in the dairy isle of the Target grocery section so I grab a little bottle of milk. I rip the cap off and help T2YO take a drink. He immediately spits it out and yells EW gross. (Internal dialogue: Shit. Now I have to buy the milk. Why do I come here with him. He’s a little jerk. And how does he know the word gross already?!)
Then he sees the drinkable yogurt. He yells: LOGURT LOGURT LOGURT! Fine. I grab the pack of tiny yogurt bottles. I rip the cap off and T2YO immediately pulls the bottle out of my hand, tries to drink it, and proceeds to spill all of the yogurt down his shirt. He cries: TOO COLD! TOO COLD! TOO COLD!
So right there in the dairy section I undress him. I pull off his little yogurt drenched t-shirt and wrap him up in his puffy jacket. He is crying: I need driiink I need driiiink I need driiiiiiiiiiink! (Internal dialogue: Look dude, I need a freakin’ drink, too. And why do you have to repeat everything three times? Now I’m going to have to nurse you in Target. Again. And why won’t you just wean yourself already?)
I careen out of the dairy aisle as T2YO is trying to Houdini himself out of the straps. A little granny type appears, smiles denturishly, grabs my arm and says, “Oh isn’t he just adorable?” (Internal dialogue: I hate you Denture Granny. I hate you, I hate your dentures, and I wish you would just leave me alone.)
I run away from Denture Granny, run into the toddler clothing area, rip the tags off a t-shirt and manage to pull the t-shirt over screaming T2YO’s head. We land in the diaper aisle. I unleash T2YO, sit on the shiny linoleum floor, and pull down a strap of my decrepit nursing bra (I refuse to buy another one).
T2YO yanks my shirt up, exposes the whole darn breast, squeals loudly and goes to it. We wrestle over my shirt. He likes to see the whole boob while nursing, I prefer to cover it up. He yanks the shirt up, I yank the shirt down. He yanks up, I yank down. Yank, yank, yank. I’m lose.
My shirt is no longer really resembles a clothing item. It looks more like something with which you’d clean the rim of toilet.
(Internal dialogue: I can’t believe we had a third child. This is totally crazy. I am on the floor of Target nursing. I was kinda rude to that little granny. I wonder if I try giving T2YO a pacifier at night it might trick him into sucking on that rather than me…)
That’s when I look up, and see the cameras on the ceiling. I think: Someone in security is looking at my breasts. Again. Awesome.