Terrorizing the Dollar Store Customers

It was after 2pm and Woog hadn't napped. It wasn't like we hadn't tried to put him down...instead of nodding of to dreams of dog-dogs and pieces of cheese, he decided, yet again, to remove his diaper and pee all over his sheets, the crib, floor. (Side note: Dear Son, one day you'll be dating (like when you're 37) and I'll be certain to have your beautiful, funny, smart, genetically well-formed, mother-in-law-loving lady read this...not to embarrass, no, no...rather to inform. Allowing her the option to A) duct tape diapers to any would-be, supremely intelligent progeny, B) consider the benefits of living in a tree/barn or other non-carpeted surface or C) send the children to live with their grandmother, she having already had the experience of raising a child that frequently pees onto and out of his crib.) *Sigh*
In a brief moment of seeming sanity, I decided to take the boy with me to the Dollar Store...bad, baaaad idea.
We arrived and battled a single remaining Bubonic Plague victim exiting as we entered- ahhh the Dollar Store. It wreaks of deep discount and Marlboro Reds.
After slathering my child shiny with sanitizer, we started down the ornament aisle. "Ooooh pretty (O...petty)," Woog said, and proceeded to rip an entire bracket do-hickey laden with extra glittery snowflakes right out of the wall. A sparkly smog puffed about us (I'm certain I'll fart fairy dust tonight) and Woog laughed, "Petty."
Further up, I spotted the wrapping paper, shiny and bright. Woog helped pick out a couple and instead of throwing the last tube in the basket, he held tight repeating "Santa, Santa, SANTA." Fine. Hold it.
But hold he did not. I should have known... the words I used to try and explain to the unsuspecting grandma-like figure contemplating birthday cards. "Crash," (Cash) Woog bellowed, the paper tube undulated and dipped, evading my frantic clawing, resting finally atop the poor unsuspecting grandma-like figure's well-quaffed bluish hair. She jumped, Woog jumped, I.... *sighed.*
Many apologies later... Woog made amends too, smiling and giggling and looking so sugar sweet. HA. I tried to back door it down the craft aisle, but it was "let's stand around day," so I had to cruise up and down a few unnecessary sections. Kovi was content for the moment, violently shaking a dozen or so jiggle bells glued to leather strapping. I'm certain we annoyed every single person in the store. Finally, the crafts.
While I perused the selection of coloring books (is he ready for these yet? I mean, he's just now NOT eating the crayons...) Woog stealthily removed his weapon from the basket. He giggled in his I'm-totally-doing-something-I-shouldn't-and-I-know-I'll-get-in-BIG-touble,-but-it's-SO-totally-worth-it way. "Cash...." "Cash..." I am reaching, grasping, clutching at air... and it begins to rain coloring books.
This time he relinquished his sword silently, probably having a good idea of what I intended for his behind. But...we didn't make it that far.
We'd just finished checking out, bags atop the wrapping paper in the basket, weighed down by the boxes of candy canes. I pull the cart over to the side and fish out my keys, which, I am certain, enter into the Witness Protection Program shortly after crossing the zipper threshold. Phone, wallet, glasses, Oooo a mint!, change, receipts, pens, pacifiers...keys...? KEYS!! And we're off! Sort of. Suddenly my feet are river dancing without my say-so, arms flailing like the Sprint Store blow-up tube guy. What the hell? My head narrowly misses the cart handle as I ungracefully bob and weave like a drunk on a 4-day bender. Woog is calling, "Mama?"
Recovering, I glance down and realize he'd removed a tube of "Santa" paper from the boxes of wrapping paper at the front of the store and sticking it through the leg hole of his seat, created a clever mechanism of unexpected humility... awesome. Just what every Mom needs...saggy boobs? Check. Gray hair? Yup. Certain degradation? You betcha!
Dear Dollar Store, though I appreciate your ability to capture and delight me with your over-glazed ceramic cats and your off-brand AAA batteries, I must decline further attempts at shopping whilst the young boy is in tow. Sadly, your aisles are too small, everything within reach of a sticky-fingered toddler. Your shiny tokens memorize, tis true, but alas, dear Dollar Store, my patience, much like your dish towels, wears thin. I promise to revisit one day... one day. Until then, adieu. You'll always be my number 1 store for birthday supplies.