We were having a difficult time shopping. We being Josh and I. Samantha and Simon were having difficulty escaping, hellbent on wreaking havoc. Moreso than usual. Shopping with small children is always a test of virtues, a choice between accepting humility or fighting against humiliation.
Our final stop was the restroom. Josh attempted to go in by himself. The monkeys broke free and raced after him, throwing themselves through the door ahead of him, nearly knocking him down.
Samantha announced, to the entire men’s restroom, attempting and thankfully failing to incite her brother, “Watch out! We’re going to get killed! We’re going to die! It’s the bathroom of death!” She howled, reveling in the sound of her own echo, in the depths of her drama, “It’s the Potty of Death!” If the bathroom had been empty, I’m sure she wouldn’t have said a thing. She was gleeful at her own daring, braving the Potty of Death.
I don’t think I want to go back to that store this month. I think I’m going to hide in my hole, with a pint of chocolate ice cream, scooped with chocolate cookies.