Hormones, I tell myself. But I don’t believe it. I close my eyes and tighten my grasp on my nephew, humming softly to him. When I finish the last stanza, I open my eyes and find Danny staring at me, a knowing smile on his face.
Seventeen
Barry: My wife loves Target. It’s just like Alexander’s was, but better. You can get anything from Target. A microwave, a winter coat, a kitchen sink, roach motels, hemorrhoid cream. It’s terrific!
Meg: Barry, when Target shows up in the greatest city in the world, it’s like the fall of Rome.
* * *
Thursday seems to be going well so far. Things are finally gelling for me in the kid-department. I got McKenna to school on time and I remembered to send in the bag of uncooked pasta with which she will be recreating the first Thanksgiving dinner, or some such shit. Cera and I have fallen into a tenuous alliance, likely due to my mistreatment of Patsy Gates last night. She was markedly less hostile to me at the breakfast table and cleared the plates the first time I asked, which surprised both me and Danny. I even managed to change Tebow’s diaper this morning without getting any amount of fecal matter on my person. So, that was definitely a win.
But the day goes south at Target. I should seriously have known better.
Danny had a list of household items that were running low, and I foolishly offered to pick them up for him before heading over to the bakery in Pelican Point to order Cera’s birthday cake. (Also, I’m secretly hoping that Dr. Rabinowitz called in my prescription for Xanax, although knowing the sadist, he probably didn’t.) I am not a Target shopper, nor have I ever been, even though Manhattan now has one. The reason I don’t shop there is not because I’m a snob, but because I get everything I need from Gristedes and Zabar’s and Duane Reade and Bloomingdales. (Okay, maybe I am a wee bit of a snob.)
But here in So Cal? Jesus. Apparently, Target is the go-to spot for moms after dropping their kids at school. The parking lot is packed with SUVs and minivans, and a veritable parade of mothers and small children excitedly hike toward the entrance as though it’s the Taj Mahal.
I find a parking space about a million miles from the monolithic building decorated with red targets, pull the Camaro in, and shut off the engine.
Cera turns to me from the passenger seat and says, “Target. Cool.”
In the backseat, Tebow starts mumbling excitedly. I glance in the rearview mirror and see that he is pointing at the store. “Targie, Targie!” he exclaims. Wow. He can almost say the name. Amazing.
With Danny’s list safely tucked in my pocket, I hoist Tebow from his car seat. I carry him on my hip, with Cera shuffling beside me. “Can we go to the toy section?” she asks. “I want to see if they have Totally Polished Fianna.”
Like I know what that means.
“I couldn’t find her at my Target back home. I have my own money, you know.”
“Sure, we can stop at the toy section. Why not?”
I am about to learn why you should never ever stop at, pass by, or push your cart anywhere near the toy section of Target if you are with a couple of kids. Not only will you possibly never see the light of day again, it can turn into a disaster equal to flood, famine and pestilence on a global scale.
First things first; I have to get Tebow situated into a cart. As per my brother’s instructions, I have brought something called a ‘Floppy Seat,’ which apparently is different than a ‘Boppy Seat,’ although I have no idea what that is. The floppy seat fits over the front of the cart, protecting the child from whatever germs and microbes might have been left behind by the previous occupant. It’s supposed to be easy, but I’ll tell you, you need a freaking master’s degree to figure this fucker out.
After five minutes of tucking and pulling at the elastic, and tugging on the straps (witnessed by a battalion of mothers who effortlessly slide their own freaking floppy seats into their carts and look at me pityingly—but none of whom offers to help) I finally decide to simply stuff the fabric onto the plastic panel and shove Tebow on top of it. Yes, the push bar is naked, so he will likely contract diphtheria when he runs his chubby little hands across it, but I’d like to get moving and I’ve wasted enough time already.
“I have to hit the pharmacy,” I say, and Cera nods enthusiastically.
“Sure, sure. The toy section’s on the way.”
I nod to her, but soon realize that she is full of shit. And, also, I should have hit the pharmacy first.
We meander past the women’s section, full of casual sweaters and Mossimo jeans and an array of long sleeve tees—on sale for eight bucks a pop—and head for the back of the store. A few items catch my eye, like a cable knit sweater for $24.99 and an Isaac Mizrahi skirt, but I cannot, in good conscience, buy anything for my wardrobe at Target. Perhaps no one else would know, but I would. I rationalize my superior attitude by reminding myself that I already dropped a wad at Bloomingdales.
Who am I kidding?
Tebow is bouncing up and down in his seat and the closer we get to the toy department, the faster Cera moves. We speed past the men’s section, shoes, baby gear, workout clothing, and hit the electronics, which is across the walkway from the toys. Tebow pushes himself up from the cart and I barely catch him before he plummets to the hard floor. Cera immediately abandons me and disappears down an aisle that boasts shelf after shelf of dolls and kid-fashion kits and Barbies. Tebow wriggles in my arms, trying to free himself from my grasp. I set him down on the floor and he toddles off in the direction of the more manly toys.
There are lots of mothers in this section, their shopping carts parked at the end caps. Some chat with other moms, some talk on their phones or check their emails, all the while, their little darlings scamper through the aisles, merrily pulling boxes and packages and assorted toys off the shelves.
I hustle after Tebow, not wanting to lose sight of him after the Bloomingdales fiasco. He makes his way to the Star Wars aisle and gazes reverently up at row after row of action figures.
“I wanna, I wanna,” he says, stretching his hands up as high as they will go. Then he loses interest and moves further down the aisle, stopping in front of an array of light sabers. “I wanna, I wanna,” he repeats. Again, he loses interest and scurries over to the next aisle.
I stand at the walkway, looking back toward the girls’ items, searching for Cera. I can’t leave Tebow, but I don’t want to lose Cera either.
“Tebow, let’s find Cera,” I suggest and grab for my nephew’s hand. He yanks his fingers away from me and shakes his head.
“I wanna!” he cries, gesturing toward an enormous Iron Man Transformer that costs forty-three dollars.
“We’ll come back here,” I assure him, “but first we have to find Cera.
“I wanna!” He stamps his foot.
I have no choice but to pick him up and carry him back down the walkway. He starts to shriek as we head for our cart, flailing his limbs wildly. I receive a kick to my midsection and grunt with pain, surprised by how much strength the little guy has.
“I told you we’ll go back,” I say through clenched teeth.
I find Cera in the girly aisle, cross-legged on the floor and surrounded by boxes with creepy little dolls that have skinny bodies and over-sized heads, made up and accessorized to look like hookers.
“Cera, come on.”
“They have all of them here,” she says dreamily. “I can’t get these at home. Look, Sea Stunnerz Jade, Kool Katz Sasha, Totally Polished Fianna, In the Wild Cloe!” Her eyes shimmer and she is totally oblivious to Tebow and his kung fu tantrum.
“Okay, that’s really nice, but as you can see, I have a situation here. Come with me, please. I need to go back to the Iron Man section.”
“Iron Man sucks,” she tells me matter-of-factly. Obviously, she’s never seen Robert Downey Jr.’s version, which totally does not suck.
“Fine, whatever. Just come on.”
“I want to stay here.”
“I can’t leave you here by yourself,” I say, and hat
e the pleading edge in my voice.
“I’m not a baby!” she retorts. “Just take him back to stupid Iron Man. I’ll stay here. I won’t go anywhere, I swear.”
I take a deep breath and count to ten, all the while, Tebow is clamoring to get down.
“All right, but don’t move.”
I set Tebow on the floor and follow his scurrying, diapered butt back to the boys’ section, scanning the crowd for possible child-abductors. He returns to the Iron Man Transformer and starts climbing the shelf to get it.
“No, Tebow,” I shout as I pry him from the rack. “Auntie Meg will get it.”
I pull the large box from the shelf and hold it out to him. He grasps at it and yanks it away from me, but it weighs so much he topples over and it lands on his face. A huge scream escapes him before I can manage to get the box off of his head.
A young and over-zealous Target employee rushes over to us, his red t-shirt glaringly bright.
“Is everything okay?” he asks, glancing at my nephew who is now writhing around on the floor.
“He just fell down,” I explain. The kid peers at me as though I whacked Tebow on the noggin. “He’s fine. Here, Tebow, Iron Man!” I set the box on the floor, and Tebow immediately simmers down and pulls himself into a seated position. He runs his fingers all over the box as the Target employee backs away, still looking at me suspiciously.
“I wanna!” Tebow hollers.
“Yeah, and I want a Mercedes,” I tell him, but he isn’t listening.
“I wanna, I wanna, I wanna!”
“You got forty-five bucks?” I ask. “Okay, so let’s put it back on the shelf.”
I remove the box from Tebow’s lap and he starts to fuss. “No, no, no, no! I wanna!”
My cell phone rings and I snatch it from my purse with my free hand while playing tug of war with my nephew. The caller ID says Damien.
“Hey, D,” I say into the phone. “Tebow, settle down. Right now.” My firm tone makes him raise his volume a few decibels.
“What is that racquet?” Damien demands. “For Christ’s sake, it sounds like a bloody war zone.”
“It is,” I agree. “What’s up, D? Any news?”
“It’s hard to talk with all that noise,” he says, perturbed.
“Try.”
“Yes, well, apparently Gordon is putting someone in to fill in for you next week. Word is, it’s a trial run to replace you.”
“What?” My shriek matches my nephew’s.
“Just Monday through Wednesday. Thanksgiving and Black Friday, they’ll be airing round the clock holiday shite.”
The station does this every year, taking snippets from all of the shows from holiday seasons past. But Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, someone other than me will be sitting in my seat sparring with Barry. This is not good. Neither is the headache I’m getting from Tebow’s blubbering.
“Who is it?”
“I do not know, but I’m working on it.”
Tebow growls low in his throat, like a wild animal. “Tebow, stop!” I yell, and snatch away the Iron Man. My nephew gives me the pre-tantrum face. Uh oh.
“D, I’ve gotta go,” I spit into the phone.
“Right, but wait, when are you meeting with you-know-who?”
“Tomorrow, lunch,” I say quickly, knowing that Tebow is about to blow.
“Who is it again?”
My nephew scrunches his lips tight, his face turns bright red. T minus three, two…
“Eileen Buchanan at KTOC, Damien. I really have to—” One.
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh!” I hang up the phone just as Tebow’s earth-shattering scream fills the air.
“What the heck?” Cera stands at the end of the aisle holding a Bratz doll.
“I WANNA I WANNA IWANNAWANNAWANNA!”
As calmly as I can, I place the Iron Man back on the shelf. Tebow has gained his feet and starts climbing the shelf again. I loop my arm around his middle and scoop him up.
“Nooooo! I wanna!” His voice is getting hoarse, which makes the sound akin to nails on a chalkboard. I’d buy him the toy to shut him the hell up, but knowing my brother and Caroline, I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t want me to do that. He’s far too young for Iron Man, and also, I’m smart enough to know that you cannot give in to terrorist demands—that is, reward a tantrum by giving the child the toy he wants.
Tebow’s whole body spasms, and as I walk toward our cart, the other mothers turn our way. Their expressions range from disdainful to apologetic to downright hostile. I try to ignore them, but my cheeks grow hot.
“Why don’t you get him the toy?” Cera asks and I glare at her as Tebow delivers an elbow to my side. Ouch, there went my spleen.
We reach the cart and I try to set Tebow into the seat, but his limbs are as rigid as a dead body in full rigor. His wails echo throughout the store.
“Tebow, calm down. Seriously, I don’t want to hurt you. Sit down! Cera, help me!”
She sets the Bratz doll into the belly of the cart and comes up next to me.
“Jeez, kid, take a chill pill,” she says.
“Yeah, Cera, that’s helpful. Thanks.”
With Cera spotting him, I struggle to squeeze his tight legs through the holes in the seat. His back goes board-straight and I press on his mid-section to make him bend. He seems to intuit that he can’t win against the two of us, and he suddenly goes limp. But the punishing wails continue. And I left his pacifier in the car.
This is definitely another fuck me moment.
I push the cart out of the toy section, and the further we get from Iron Man, the louder my nephew’s screams become. He thrusts both hands in the direction of the dreaded aisle, causing his whole upper body to convulse. I feel my armpits dampen within my Hudson top as I pass other shoppers, some of whom gawk openly, while others turn away from the cacophonous scene. My temples have started to pound and my brain seems to swell against the inside of my skull, and a kind of mania overtakes me as I maneuver through the enormous store, trying to find my way back to the entrance.
How do mothers do this? I wonder. How do they keep themselves together without going completely out of their freaking minds? A surge of panic rises up from my stomach and nearly chokes me as Tebow continues to screech to the high heavens.
“Shut up!” I scream as I push toward the front of the store. This makes Tebow wail all the more. A couple of older ladies standing at the end of the beauty aisle snap their heads toward me, their mouths forming ‘o’s of shock.
“What? What?” I cry, and they quickly turn back to perusing their wrinkle creams.
I roll past the paper goods section. Viva paper towels are on my list, but at this point, I couldn’t give a shit about the Viva or the laundry detergent or the baby wipes or the freaking eco-friendly sponges. I don’t even care about the Xanax which may or may not be waiting for me at the pharmacy. I could swallow the whole bottle, but more than anything, I need to get the fuck out of this store.
Just breathe. Relax. I try to count. One, two, fucking-hell, three. It’s no good. Go to your calming place, Meg. Not working. Okay, try praying. Dear Lord, I know I only come to you in times of extreme stress, but please PLEASE make it stop. Please! I promise I’ll be a better person. I’ll try my best to be nice. I’ll do good works from now on. I’ll give money to that stupid charity that keeps harassing me about the Canadian geese. Help me, God.
Checkout is a few yards ahead—a slew of red-shirted, smiling Target employees ready to total items and take cash. My eardrums feel like they’re starting to bleed as I swerve past the cashiers and head for the golden sunlight streaming beyond the automatic sliding doors. I pass the Starbucks and the Food Court. I see the parking lot stretched out before me, can taste the freedom of the open air. Target patrons are stepping, hopping, sliding out of my path, right and left, none of them wanting to be mowed down by a lunatic woman with a howling toddler.
I’m almost there. I pass the cart return and move through the metal detector and
—
“WAWAWAWAWA,” the alarm sounds, a deafening siren that doesn’t completely drown out my nephew, but comes awfully close. I freeze in my tracks, like a bank robber who’s come face to face with a SWAT team. A security guard who appears to be about thirteen, approaches me. One look at my face and his eyes go wide, and I assume I look as deranged as I feel.
I know these alarms go off all the time, and I know nobody pays much attention, but suddenly I sense all eyes on me. I want to laugh, but I’m genuinely afraid that if I allow any laughter to pass my lips, I’ll sound like I need a straitjacket.
“Um, ma’am,” the kid says, puffing up his chest. “It’s, well, it looks like you might have something in your cart that you didn’t pay for.”
“I didn’t, I don’t, I have no idea what you’re talking about! My nephew is having a meltdown…” And I’m about to have one too. “So, if you could just let me get on my way…”
“See here?” He points to the Bratz doll tucked into the bowels of the cart, just under Tebow’s butt. I’d forgotten it was there. I snatch it up and shove it at the security guard.
“Here, take it! Take it!”
“I want that!” Cera cries. “It’s Fianna!”
“Too bad!”
“That is so not fair! I said I’d pay for it!”
“Shut the fuck up, Cera!” She grimaces at me with venom. So much for our fledgling alliance, but at this point, that’s the least of my worries.
The security guard shrugs and walks away with Fianna. Tebow’s cheeks are wet with tears and snot is pouring from his nose. I have no tissues, no wipes, nothing. I shudder, then run my forearm across his face, soaking up all the fluids with one swipe. (That’s quality fabric for you.) He scrunches his nose and hollers again and, in my madness, I consider that I might have to burn my new Hudson top to ash.
Cera stomps ahead of us, reaching the sliding doors before the cart. She gives me another scathing glare and heads for the parking lot. As soon as I pass the doors, I draw in a huge gulp of air. And although Tebow is still crying his heart out, the sound dissipates in the open air, giving my ears a slight reprieve.
Say Never Page 22
