Tuesday, March 11, 2014

panic at Target

Alternate title may have been (toddlers, twerking and target)

Now that I'm a (self proclaimed) full on mommy blogger, how could I resist dedicating an entire post to a single trip to Target. (shopping cart dramatics! ladies intimate aisle toddler musings!)

We busted a move in the parking lot, snatched a cart, the eldest child decided to really up the sun protection/give Ms. Gaga a run for her money

"the sun is too bwight mom! my eyes are to expensive (translation: sensitive)."

After snagging a cart I decided to be a glutton for punishment and head to the toy aisle for the boys to enjoy the experience of window shopping.

Half way there I got a little distracted by some Nate Berkus clearance and Rhett's fingers decided to get a little clumsy thumbsy and drop the blue icee that he was slurping.

Thank the mommy God's for reminding me to restock the baby wipes in the diaper bag that morning.

While fetching the wipes, Rhett decided it was time to put all the talks about being a "big helper" to use and start wiping the icee up with his butt. "Mommy wook! I'm skating on my bum!!" For some reason it made logical sense to me that this was the ideal time to pull Rad out of the cart and put him on the ground while I cleaned the neon blue slush up. Of course, logical.

So as a recap. Neon blush slush. On the floor. On Rhett's bum. Toddler let lose because my logic was apparently sound.

And then Rad got lost. Like I looked up and he was gone. Fantastic.

So I took off looking for him, forgetting that I was also the care taker of a 3 year old. I found him an aisle over sitting on the bottom of a toy shelf.

Sigh of relief, followed by realizing that Rhett's constant narration was missing.

But bless his heart, he found me. Carrying one of the Nate Berkus end tables. Clearly the boy has his priorities right. When separated from mother, grab a well designed end table and keep on truckin.

And much like his mother, he really didn't want to let that end table ago. Neither did I little man, neither did I. But budget's be darned, it had to go back.

Rhett's heart broke and he threw himself on the floor screaming, "I'm freaking out! I'm freaking out! I'm freaking out!" Note: Not just screaming in the form of a tantrum, but rather the alliteration of exactly how he was feeling.

(A group of high schoolers ladies decided to stroll by all on their i-phones. I'm pretty sure any picture's snapped would have the hashtag #OMGthekidistwerking! No sweethearts. It's called a tantrum.)

We were fin-i-shed.

Trip to Target?

Best outing ever.

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