The Inevitable Public Meltdown.

I knew it would happen eventually. 

I mean, there are only so many outings I can make with both boys behaving approximately 75% like little angels. In case you were wondering, that other 25% I'm referring to? Well, that's just referring to the day I wanted to crawl into a hole and die, a day that we no longer talk about thank you very much.

Let's set the scene, shall we? It was just your regular ol' run of the mill rainy Tuesday. The boys and I had spent all morning exhausting both ourselves and our toy options as best we could when confined to the house. For Maclane, this meant he rotated between The Swing of Neglect and The Bouncy Chair of Desperation in between being subject to Tummy Time Torture. 

Just as Carter was donning a spit-up clad burp cloth cape, leaping from the couch armrest and narrowly missing landing on Maclane by a mere 3 inches, I knew we had to get out of the house. 

Our destination? Kohl's. Seems simple enough, right? After all, the only thing I needed to procure was a set of plain white onesies in size Gigantor for Maclane's monthly photo shoot.  Easy peasy. 

I pull up and park the car. Another store with the world's smallest godforsaken carts meant that I would have to wear Maclane in the Ergo and let Carter ride in the plastic cart seat, perfectly within arms reach of every single item of clothing on those lower retail racks. Splendid. 

Let's pause for a moment and talk about spitting rain. If it's going to rain, it might as well RAIN and not spit. If I'm going to get wet, just let me get wet. Don't mist all over me and have me feeling like a sweaty, sticky mess for the next twenty minutes. 

So there I am, in the spitting rain, loading Maclane into the Ergo (something he has loved the last 67 times I've done it) all the while practically yelling at Carter to "KEEP YOUR HAND ON THE TIRE" as he tries to dance all around the parking lot. 

Remind me why I thought this was a good idea? Oh, right. Couch Olympics. 

Grabbing his hand, we march off into the store and settle into a cart. Immediately Carter launches into a tirade of "choo choo? momma, choo choo? CHOO CHOO?" which means he might as well be saying, "woman, you dragged me out in this spitting rain storm, you best be buying me an overpriced Thomas the Train toy that I will only play with for .47 seconds before chucking it at my brother's head, if you know what's good for you."

And I don't. I don't know what's good for me because apparently I'm under the impression that he doesn't need another train and it's too bad any way because Mommy already spent this month's disposable income on craft shit for her Pinterest link-up.

We ride over into the kid's section and I grab the onesies. This would be when Mac's little foot starts sneaking down into the band of the Ergo. I re-position him. No dice. I un-clip and lift and adjust. He's still not comfortable. The squirming begins. 

Just like any other time I'm in a sea of baby clothes, I'm immediately distracted by stripes and sleepers and ohmygod baby velour and before I know it the squirms have turned into full-fledged WWF moves, all the while still attached to my chest. 

What's Carter doing? Oh, nothing more than filling his little plastic bucket seat with anything he can get his hands on. This includes but is not limited to two packs of Thomas big boy underwear, a pair of pink ruffled pants and a ruler. Where he managed to find a ruler, I have no idea. I don't even ask questions. 

As I run-walk ourselves to the front registers, I make sure to carefully disarm Carter of his newly acquired wares and stash them on display racks as we move. Maclane is now making rather loud sounds that are slightly reminiscent of a dying cat. 

And people are starting to stare. 

As I'm standing in line doing everything short of breaking out into song, I un-clip the Ergo letting the carrier-piece fall to hang so nicely down to my knees. Bouncing Maclane on my hip, we shimmy our way up to the open register. 

Maclane still sounds like a dying cat but worse. He sounds like 47 dying cats. I mean, it's bad. So bad that I have to ask the cashier to repeat herself anytime she asks me a question. 

What? No, I don't have a Kohl's charge. Bounce, dying cat screams, bounce bounce. 
What did you say? No, I don't want to open one. Torturous dying cat screams, bounce bounce. 

While Maclane is melting down and the cashier is asking me if I'd like to completely send my husband off the deep end by opening a Kohl's charge, Carter is unloading approximately 89 Kohl's gift cards into that godforsaken tiny plastic bucket seat. 

WHY ARE THE GODDAMN GIFT CARDS SO CLOSE TO THE INQUISITIVE HANDS OF GIANT TODDLERS?

Remember, Maclane is no longer strapped to me. The Ergo is dangling between my knees. I'm beginning to break out in hives.

And then the cashier asks, "Would you like to try some of our new perfume line?"

"LADY. PLEASE. DO I LOOK LIKE SOMEONE WHO WANTS TO TRY ON SOME FUCKING PERFUME? NO. I'M ALREADY WEARING EAU' DE BABY VOMIT. I'M LUCKY IF I GET TO SHOWER EACH DAY LET ALONE GET DRESSED. PERFUME IS RESERVED SOLELY FOR SPECIAL OCCASIONS, WHICH I CURRENTLY DO NOT SEE MUCH OF. BY THE WAY, DO YOU WANT A CHUBBY BABY? HE'S USUALLY NOT LIKE THIS."

I wish.

Instead, over the dying cat screams and the now wails of a toddler who just wants to touch one more gift card making his stash an even 90, I shout, "no thank you. I'm sorry for the mess," as I proceeded to wheel my motley bunch back out into the spitting rain.