Have I mentioned that my weakness is Target? Because it is. I could buy everything in that store. Even the stuff I don't want. Or even like. It's just that everything is so shiny and colorful and pretty.
Try going in there with two little girls who also have a weakness for all things shiny and colorful and pretty.
I'm lucky if I can limit myself to $100.
As a result, I return at least half of what I buy there. Which results in two trips to Target every week. The first trip to purchase something I desperately need (read: could totally live without), and the second trip to return 3 items out of the 6 that I purchased when I originally intended to buy the 1 desperately-needed item.
And yes, after returning the 3 items, I will stroll through the store and find more things to buy.
Admitting this out loud is just sad.
So Shaelyn has come to know and love "The Red Store." She has memorized the layout. She knows just by the turn of the cart whether we are there to get shoes or makeup or a toy or cat food or milk.
She also knows where the customer service desk is, or the "turning" desk.
"Are we here to turn that in? Are we going to give it back?" she asks almost every time we go. She's come to see Target as a sort of commodity library. They let me check out items, and I take them back when I'm through with them. Ahhh, wouldn't that be nice?
So when I got my Mother's Day gifts from Michael, I mean the girls, I finally got up the courage to ask Michael if they might, in fact, be returned, and the money spent put towards something I desperately needed.
A hammock.
So we sauntered on over to Target, me and the girls, to return these excellent presents. I put them up on the counter at the costumer service desk.
"Is there anything wrong with these items?"
"No, I just don't need them."
Then comes the audible gasp from the back of the cart.
"Mom, you're turning in your PRESENTS?!?"
Since it was two days after Mother's Day, the Target employee gave me a knowing smile as I blushed with embarrassment. Yes, I'm the heartless woman returning the gifts my husband lovingly wrapped and delivered with breakfast in bed. Thank you, daughter, for pointing it out!
This week we yet again found ourselves going to Target for our weekly "return and buy" visit. I had 4 items that needed returning, a prescription to fill, leggings to buy the girls, and a new razor head to find for Michael's electric razor.
I planned on doing all this on Monday. I loaded the girls in the car that afternoon and headed over there, only to realize I had forgotten 2 of the 4 things that needed returning, my prescription script, and Michael's current razor head (to help me find a replacement). Since the girls were already in the car, we headed over to the dollar store instead to buy some other much-needed items.
On Wednesday, we headed out again, TWICE. But the morning involved too many errands and Rachelle fell asleep in the car before we could make it to Target. That afternoon we tried again, but by the time everyone was awake, had eaten their snacks, gone potty, and finished whining, it was time to go to a friend's house for dinner.
So Thursday was the day. I was determined. We tried to go in the morning before the girls' music class. We actually made it to the parking lot this time, and even put Shaelyn in a cart, only to realize I had left the 4th and final return item on the table. Not wanting to make two trips to return items, we went back home to retrieve said item, and still arrived early to music class, the first time to arrive early to anything in our lives.
After music we headed over there for the fifth, and hopefully FINAL, time. Shaelyn whined and whined that she had to go potty, so after returning our 4 items, we made for the bathroom.
Even though I am not a germaphobe by any stretch of the imagination, I still refuse to let Shaelyn touch anything in public bathrooms, which means she has to let me lift her up and put her on the seat. She has started to resist this more and more, especially when I am holding Rachelle in one arm and have to lift her with the other. The one time I allowed her to put herself on a public potty resulted in her peeing all over the floor, because it's hard for her to lift herself up and over that stupid gap in the seat. But I digress...
This potty break started with whining and it increased as I tried to put her on the toilet one-handed. Finally I relented.
And she peed all over the floor. All over her shoes. All over her skirt. All over her panties.
And I had NOTHING to change her into.
As she cried about peeing over everything and I snapped at her about needing to let me put her on the toilet and Rachelle squirmed out of my arms and ran all over the bathroom, I let the terrible thought sink in.
Maybe I don't love Target as much as I thought I did.
No, that can't be true. I cleaned up the pee, wadded up the wet clothes, put them in a plastic Target bag, and looked through my bag for something to put on Shaelyn. I settled on a diaper. Which still fit her, by the way.
She cried and cried. "Mommy, I don't want to wear a diaper. Babies wear diapers. I'm not a baby!" I actually felt bad about this, but what were we going to do? Leave the bathroom with her completely naked from the bottom down?
Luckily, we were there to buy leggings, so we quickly ventured over and put a pair on her. Which I did pay for, in case you were wondering.
By the time I got home, I was so tired from my 4 attempted, 1 semi-successful trip to Target, that I felt like I needed to my newly purchased Mother's Day present more than ever.
Only, it wasn't assembled.
So I drug the 70-pound box around to the backyard and started the assembly. Both girls hoovered (read: got in the way) the entire time, anxious to see what Mommy was building.
"This is a present for Mommy," I said. "This is so Mommy can relax," I emphasized.
30 minutes later, my beautiful green hammock beckoned to me.
For some reason, 2 little girls' excitement won out, and they got the first ride. Imagine that.
Sharing a hammock ride with your girls after spending what felt like an eternity at Target...
... now that's relaxing.
