Last weekend, we went to Staples to look at printers. My kids had had a pretty good day of semi-reasonable behavior, so we got ice cream and then took them all with us to the store. As opposed to leaving them home alone. Right.
Anyway, they were so beguiled by all those rows and aisles and open floor space that they just couldn't contain their energy. While C-Pod and I talked to the recent high school graduate pushing for the HP Laser Jet, they ran through the store, chased by some invisible but apparently persistent force. Thankfully, they didn't knock over any store displays or have office chair races through the passages. It's much worse than that.
As we discussed the possibility of finding a wireless-ready color laser printer (nearly impossible, unless you have a lot of money), G-Dog came flying around the corner of the aisle. I say flying, but really, he was only moving as fast as you possibly can when your pants are around your ankles. Which is where his were.
"WHAT are you DOING?!?" I screamed, because, seriously, I lost my composure over this one. I ran over and pulled his pants back up, hoping the sales guy had not been blessed by a glimpse of little boy parts.
"No, Mommy, there's POOP in there!" He struggled against me as I re-clothed his booty, trying desperately to keep his underwear from touching his body in any way.
At this point, Craig swooped in, threw G-Dog over his shoulder, and hurried to the bathroom.
I returned to my conversation with the stunned sales dude, and learned that you can't buy off-brand toner cartridges for HP printers. Bummer. And why are you looking at me so strangely, Mr. Staples? I have THREE CHILDREN aged 4 and under. They have poop accidents, even if they are infrequent. They are regularly nude in places they should not be. You're lucky they didn't decide one of your wooden office tables looks a lot like a tree and pee on it.
I met CPod at the entrance to the bathroom. G-Dog launched himself through the door proclaiming, "I'm going commando!" to all who were in earshot. Which, with his bombast, was basically the entire store. CPod handed me a wadded up papertowel.
"What is this?"
"Big-boy pants. There was poop in them."
"I am NOT putting these in my purse."
"It's not a lot of poop. Just a little skid mark."
Still. I had to draw the line somewhere. The Staples trash bin is now one pair of big-boy pants richer.