There are some stories you swear you’ll never tell.

This was one of them.

But then a certain someone (I’m looking at you, Julie) said, “That needs to be a blog post.”

Several years ago I posted this story for the first time. Now let’s see what you all think!

So… here we are.

It all started with what should have been a quick Target run.

The kids and I had just dropped Tammy off at work, and I always loved going first thing in the morning. The store was quiet, the shelves were stocked, and there was no wrestling another customer for the self-checkout lane. (Don’t laugh… it’s happened.)

I grabbed one of those giant red Target carts because, honestly, they’re lifesavers when you’re juggling a baby carrier and a three-year-old who believes walking is optional but sprinting is mandatory.

Harper was in the middle of potty training, so before we even started shopping, I made him use the bathroom. Parenting win, right?

Everyone went.

No accidents.

We were off to a great start.

Target, if you’ve ever been there, is basically one giant square designed to convince you that you need seventeen things you didn’t come in for.

Our list was simple.

A nail file.

A school folder for Harper.

A few random necessities.

Easy enough.

Except…

The folders weren’t where they were supposed to be.

A very kind employee pointed us all the way to the seasonal section in the back corner of the store.

Naturally.

When we finally found them, I made the mistake every parent eventually makes.

I let my child choose.

Eight folders later, Harper rejected every single one.

“They all have holes.”

I explained the holes were for binders.

Now he wanted a binder.

If you’ve ever read If You Give a Mouse a Cookie, you already know where this was headed.

Eventually, after what felt like a hostage negotiation, he proudly chose…

A pink folder with a cupcake on it.

Perfect.

One last item to grab and we’d be out.

That’s when it happened.

You know that feeling?

The one where your stomach suddenly says, “This isn’t a suggestion. We’re doing this NOW.”

Yep.

That feeling.

And of course I was on the complete opposite side of the store from the bathroom.

Did I immediately head there like any reasonable adult?

Absolutely not.

I still needed one more thing.

I grabbed my nursing pads and power-walked toward the restroom, which quickly turned into an Olympic speed event with two children riding in the cart.

“Mom… why are we going so fast?” Harper asked.

No time to explain, buddy.

My brain was now running through every possible scenario.

How do I get two kids out?

Can I make it?

Can I hold it?

Is this how I become a Target story?

The giant red carts, for anyone wondering, do in fact fit inside the family restroom.

Barely.

As we squeezed through the doorway, I gave Harper one very important instruction.

“Hands in, buddy.”

Around the first corner.

Success.

Second corner…

BAM!

Cue the loudest scream you’ve ever heard.

His poor little hand got pinched between the cart and the bathroom door.

I felt absolutely terrible.

But at that exact moment, my body had made the executive decision that there was no more waiting.

So there I was…

Sitting on the toilet…

Apologizing profusely…

Holding Harper’s hand…

Kissing his fingers…

And trying to convince him everything was okay while silently praying no one came running into the bathroom thinking I’d seriously injured my child.

Meanwhile, Aberdeen?

Not a peep.

She sat there like she was watching the greatest reality show ever created.

A few minutes later, we emerged from the bathroom.

No concerned employees.

No questioning looks.

No security.

Nothing.

We casually finished checking out and left as if nothing had happened.

Mission accomplished.

And if you made it this far thinking this story was going to end with Harper having a potty-training accident…

Ha!

Plot twist.

It was me.