3 Kids, Panic, and a Runaway Buggy

Toys “R” Us had this really bad parking lot with an incline that really annoyed me.

That is where the problem began on a sweltering summer day that none of us will forget. Even if one of us, me, wants to.

After the pandemonium that happened only while visiting Toys “R” Us, which I had absolutely sworn to never do again for the 35th time that year, I had brought them again.

I had once again been chasing two toddler boys who wanted cars, books, horses, Lego, and the pure delight of knocking things off shelves. And a preschool girl who demanded that she needed every Barbie, stuffed animal, doll, dollhouse, colouring book, reading book, DS game, and electronic toy that you can imagine.

But that was not enough. When she heard, “Not today, honey,” it only meant switch modes to her.
From:
“Mom, I need that Barbie!”
To:
“Mommy, I was thinking. Do you remember four and a half months ago when you told me that I was really, really well behaved and that you would definitely surprise me someday with a treat?”

I stared blankly.

What?

“Don’t you remember? You promised me!”

Then the sweet smile again.

“Remember, Mommy? I was helping you with putting all the toys away,” her toys, to be specific, “and then I sat with the boys and watched TV.” They were 21 months apart, and she was implying that she had babysat them for me. “And you said, ‘Oh, honey, you are so sweet. Thank you so much for helping me. One day I am going to surprise you with a treat.’”

And she was not wrong.

We both had a crazy kind of don’t-forget-very-much memory, except my version was more like this: there was utter chaos in the home. I was making dinner, and somehow every square inch of more than 1,000 square feet of hardwood was cloaked in toys. Books. Dolls. Crayons. Colouring books. Lego. Duplo. Racing cars. Barbies. Barbie clothes. Barbie houses. Barbie airplanes. Barbie cars. Barbie makeup. Little stuffed TY animals everywhere. We had more than 100 of the freaking stupid little critters. Batman and Robin everything. Costumes, figurines, cars, gear, and things I had no clue about. There were Thomas and Brio clickety-clack trains and rails everywhere.

Everywhere.

Most of it was hers.

The day she remembered, she had been begging for a movie, but I was holding off like a good little newish mom should hold off. No, no, no. No excessive TV for my little ones. They shall read. They shall use their imaginations. They shall cooperate, talk about the seasons, the reasons, and the meaning of life.

Or not.

But no excessive TV.

And it had led me to an entire floor of unseen hardwood, dinner to make, and fussing toddlers who were starting to fight out of boredom.

I gave in.

“Oh, oh, oh, Mommy! I will help you with the boys,” she said, as if she were so much older than them.

She told me she would sit with them and make sure they didn’t get up.

If I put on her favourite movie.

And brought drinks.

And snacks.

And her favourite teddy bears, dolls, and blanket.

But hey, she offered, so I encouraged the fake kindness and told her I would get her a treat someday. Months ago.

And today, she brought it up because she wanted a new toy.

Over and over and over like a droning bee behind me as I chased the boys with fatigued I-just-want-to-give-up-on-this-already-ness.

Returning to the car, all three of them were exhausted from rampaging through Toys “R” Us as if it were a public playground.

I was at the point where I had put my sunglasses on in the middle of the store, just in case I was on camera.

I was sure security officers were watching my loose-cannon three kids and me, saying, “Oh no. It is that woman again. Yes. The one with the three feral children. Yes, the one whose children delightedly swing their arms into every aisle’s reachable shelf and, like a slide rule, knock, knock, knock every toy down. And if they miss one, they double back to make sure the shelf is empty. Can’t we get a restraining order written against her and her children? Or at least make one up?”

“And the whole family leaves every time with the same thing. Three lollipops. Three hours of decimating the entire store, and the ROI is three hours of destruction for three purchased 99-cent lollipops. It should be against the law.”

I trudged the miserable, exhausted kids back to the car, sweating terribly before we were even 10 feet outside. I had been chasing them for hours at some point caught a whiff of myself, and realized I had forgotten my deodorant that morning.

As if there was not enough to be embarrassed about.

I had three little kids to get into car seats, which was already a full-contact sport, a moral test, and possibly an Olympic event that nobody had bothered to formally recognize yet.

I had a fleeting moment of relief, thinking that the day was getting closer to the end, but then just as quickly realized with utter exhaustion just how not close it was to the end of the long, hot summer day.

I just had to get them home and make dinner.

I hated that parking lot.

Literally.

It had a huge incline and was like a contortion call-out to anyone who had to juggle putting more than one child in a car seat at once. And I had three.

Typically, I had my “got this handled” method, where as I was reaching to the middle seat to put my daughter in, my foot was hooked around the bottom of the buggy that was still housing the other two. Then I would put them in one at a time.

But it was precarious on the best of days.

Today was no different. The heat made them miserable. The heat made me miserable. I had a messy bun that day, and I am sure the “cute messy” look I was going for had turned into “psycho-mom-back-at-Toys-R-Us-again-for-three-hours” instead.

I felt exhausted, grumpy, hungry, and done.

And I was trying to do what mothers of little children do in parking lots. As I hooked my ankle around the bottom of the buggy and tried to buckle my daughter in, I was trying to do and watch everything at once.

Frantically.

I was watching the kids, watching the cars, watching the cart, watching the doors, watching the distance between the cart and the car, watching the city around us, watching for danger, watching for strangers, watching for impatience, watching for tiny hands and car doors closing when they shouldn’t, watching for tiny feet, and most dangerous of all, watching for the moment when any of the three of them would have sudden ideas.

I remembered a time when I used to actually feel that going shopping was like a luxury event. I took my time. I looked at the labels. I sniffed and examined. I bought the better brands. I smiled.

Shopping was not shopping anymore.

It was logistics with a nerve-wracking attack on my sanity waiting to pounce every minute.

I got Elleni into the car first and buckled her into her seat. As usual, my foot was locked around the metal of the buggy, keeping it close to the car, but somehow the buggy slipped away.

Right away, a feeling of panic washed over me – picturing three children in different places – one me – no control. Frantically trying to get it back.

Somehow, the clock stopped ticking in real time, and I became a spectator of the disaster I had imagined.

I snapped my head to the buggy holding the boys.

The cart was moving.

Not gently.

Not casually.

Not in a slow, strolling, “Excuse me, I seem to be drifting” sort of way.

No.

The cart was gone.

It had Elia and Michael in it, and it was suddenly flying down the Toys “R” Us parking lot like it had been filled with rocket fuel.

I started running after them, calling, “It’s okay, guys! I’m coming! Mommy’s coming!”

Behind me, from the car, poor little Elleni started screaming, “Mommy! Come back! Mommy, come back! Please don’t leave me alone! I’m scared! Please don’t leave me alone!”

My heart was torn so badly, and I was unable to help all of them or even any of them in that moment. It was a horrible feeling.

I yelled back, “Honey, I see you, but I have to go! I have to get your brothers!”

I was panting, out of breath, pulled in two impossible directions by three little hearts that all needed me at the exact same time for completely opposite reasons.

Elleni was screaming because I had left her.

Elia was crying because he was in a runaway cart.

And Michael?

Typical Michael.

Michael was laughing.

Not a nervous little laugh. Not a polite, “Oh dear, this is unusual” laugh.

No. Michael was busting a gut. He was laughing his little head off as if this were the greatest ride Toys “R” Us had ever offered, and honestly, considering the day we had had, maybe it was.

Poor Elia, with his tow-headed mop-top and big blue eyes, was trying so hard not to cry, his little chin shaking and shaking as he reached helplessly for me from inside the cart.

Michael was laughing.

Elia was sobbing.

Elleni was screaming, “Mommy, don’t leave me alone!”

And me?

I was the crazy mom, who smelled like a horse, chasing them down the parking lot in this ridiculous, flailing, floundering, trying-to-run-but-looking-like-I-was-swimming-on-land sort of way.

A wild woman in a Toys “R” Us parking lot, chasing her feral children in a runaway buggy while trying to reassure all three of them that everything was fine.

Everything was not fine.

They were 15 feet away before I could even say I was coming.

At 20 feet, Elia burst out crying.

At 30 feet, Michael was in stitches.

At 35 feet, Elleni was shrieking with fear, and to be honest, a bit of control issues too, but she had a legitimate reason to be shrieking.

At 40 feet, I was worried. The gap between the car and the runaway buggy was huge. If someone approached the car, what would I do?

At 45 feet, I could not breathe from running as fast as I could while shouting to Elleni that I would be right back, to Elia that he would be fine and I would be right there, and to Michael to please sit down and hang on to the cart.

This was not a ride in the park.

Please, please sit and hang on.

At 50 feet, the son-of-a-bitch cart started to make that gravelly, needs-to-be-paved, under-buggy-wheels sound.

The sound of slowing down.

At 55 feet, it stopped.

I ran to the boys, scooped them both up like carpet rolls, one hanging from each arm, and ran as fast as I could back to the car.

“Mooooommmmmmyyyyyy!”
Elleni was panicked. Poor thing.

Michael was still busting a gut.

Elia was calmer, but jarred by the experience.

I was tired. Frazzled. Grateful I had them back.

And I smelled like I had not showered in three weeks.

But when all three of them were finally buckled in, and I was in the driver’s seat with the AC on, I let out a big sigh.

I laughed out loud at the ridiculousness that could only happen to me.

And I smiled.