Yes. Yes I was *that* mom in Target.
With two trantruming twins impressively flinging themselves about. The cart carrying them, with wheels already off-kilter, jerking in unnatural directions.
We were in need of some essentials â€“ by which I mean more socks for the boys, but because of the hypnotic cherry red bulls eye, would likely return home with hundreds of dollars worth of additional merchandise.
We pulled into the parking lot. I refrained from saying too many (audible) bad words at my fellow box store patrons who turned off the city streets and instantly forgot how to drive. I refereed a heated debate about who would get to sit in the front of the cart, and pushed forward â€“ the man-made recirculating chilled arctic air blasting us with welcome.
Tangent: Quick piece of business advice â€“ tandem front-seat carts. Fewer fights lead to fewer tantrums, which means happier parents. Happier parents with more room in the basket of their carts will spend more time buying more stuff. Your profits will go up. Youâ€™re welcome. Send profit-sharing checks care of Stream of the Conscious.
I grabbed the socks and quickly realized the exciting aisles of socks and underwear were directly adjacent to the toys.
â€œDusty!â€ they yelled (Boys saw the movie Planes before our vacation). So I said they could look at the orange airplane. But that Dusty couldnâ€™t come home with us. He lives at Target you see?
It was on our approach that we discovered the Monsterâ€™s of Monsters Inc/University display aisle. And here, is where the muppet meltdown began.
The ultimate cause? I wouldnâ€™t agree to purchase monster toys. And why would I? I already had two shrieking ones in my care.
â€œI want a monster toy! I need a monster! I A MONSTER!!!â€
I am now entirely convinced that both boys have outgrown any trace of chronic lung disease. Because they were definitely using every molecule of lungpower, to ratchet the volume of desperate pleas up toward nuclear-blast decibel levels.
Naturally, the stares started. Since we were in the toy area, many came from sympathetic parents â€“ the â€œbeen there, done that, sorry itâ€™s your turn todayâ€ varietal. And yes, as would be expected, there were a few, â€œReally. You canâ€™t control your children or leave the store?â€ looks.
â€œPerformance art,â€ I said nonchalantly to one woman whoâ€™d glanced over almost immediately.
She did not appear to appreciate my insinuation that she was in the presence of modern dance greatness â€“ young children inspired by the musical stylingâ€™s of Yoko Ono. Well that or she didnâ€™t realize her horrified facial expression was that obvious.
For those of you wondering why mommies like me don’t just suddenly drop everything when the onslaught of shrieking starts and exit the establishment with a dramatic flourish and train of tearful tiny persons â€“ you are assuming we have any drive or desire to RETURN and re-run errands at some point in the near future. (Time that could be better spent sobbing for monsters within the privacy of our own home.)
So sit back and enjoy this interlude of interpretive expression, people. Todayâ€™s piece is entitled â€œInterpretation of Monstrous Monster-less.â€
In the wise words of my mother-in-law, â€œIt’s Target. It was architecturally designed for tantrums. You’re all good.â€