I entered Target like a caffeinated warrior with exactly two goals: buy batteries and survive. My sidekick? Jack, age three, wearing light-up dino shoes that blinked like they were trying to signal aircraft overhead. He was already narrating the aisles in toddler dialect—half dinosaur, half tornado—and my bladder whispered, “You’ve got twelve minutes, tops.”

Coffee had surged through my system like a betrayal smoothie. I could smell cheap popcorn and faint regret near the dollar bins. My stomach chimed in with one of those deep, aquatic gurgles that spells doom. Urgency had arrived.

In the bathroom, I placed Jack just outside the stall like a morally flexible security guard and prayed to the Target gods for a moment of peace. But no. Privacy is a myth. And toddlers are born reporters.

From behind the door came his voice:
“Mommy poooooooopingggggg!”
“Hey hey hey, don’t tell people my business!” I whisper-yelled.

Too late. He had gone live.
“Is it spicy?!”
SPICY?? What kind of gastrointestinal Yelp reviews is he publishing?

Desperate to distract him, I triggered Dino Mode. He responded like the little chaos bard he is.

🎼 “Roooaaaar–Mommy poops!”
🎤 “Roooaaarrr stiiiinnnnkyyy!”
🎼 “ROOAARR EWWWWWWW–she’s makin’ SMELLS!”

He was performing a full sensory concert outside the stall. The acoustics were impressive. Echoes bounced off tile. My stomach doubled down with another unsettling slosh and I felt… transcendent surrender.

Despite everything—my dignity circling the drain—I found a flicker of serenity. I knew where Jack was. He hadn’t wandered off. He hadn’t microwaved anything. His shoes were still blinking. I felt a profound sense of relief—emotionally, mentally, and bladderly…

…until he started chanting “She’s gonna need a WIPE–She’s gonna need a WIPE!” like it was a halftime show.

I emerged to a crowd. An actual crowd. Women frozen in varying degrees of horror and delight. One woman dabbed tears from her eyes, and I’m 83% sure it was from laughter.

At the sink, Jack kept the energy going:
“Mommy, wash your hands! Use soap! Say bye to the stink!”
“Yup. Thanks.”

Then he pivoted toward the audience and proudly declared, “SHE WIPED. SHE. WIPED.”
He turned to a woman by the automatic dryer for confirmation. She gave a solemn nod like she’d witnessed history.

Jack took a bow.

The crowd clapped.

I dried my hands. Avoided all eye contact. And silently mourned the last surviving piece of my personal mystique. Somewhere between the hand sanitizer and paper towel dispenser lay my dignity… folded, damp, and publicly shredded.

Parenthood is a humbling experience—just when you think you’ve mastered survival, your child narrates your bathroom break like it’s a Broadway matinee.

But hey—at least the shoes didn’t blink out mid-performance.