Shop-a-holics

Mike was out of town this week, but before he left, he made some not-so-subtle comments about how the two dress shirts he has have almost reached their end dates.  (Before you gasp at the fact that my husband only has TWO dress shirts that fit, let's be reminded that the man is allowed to wear Bears and Cubs jerseys to work.)  However, I'm never one to shy away from a gift idea that has been chucked at me... and this one could be a surprise, too!  Double bonus!

So, on Thursday morning, I packed up the kids and told them-- with great enthusiasm-- that we were going to go buy clothes for Daddy!  Huzzah!  What kid DOESN'T like shopping for menswear, right?  They took it pretty well, mostly because I dangled promises of seeing my friend, Erin, while we were out on this little endeavor.

We went to Town Square, a cute little shopping area that is home to, among other store, Jos A Bank.  This is a great store.  Seriously, if you want some men's clothing, go there.  They have good quality shirts and ties and PHENOMENAL customer service.  They do NOT, however, have the train that Noelle remembered seeing there.  (She was thinking about Stride Rite, where we usually buy Mike's clothes.)

We walked in, and I gave the kids a firm warning to NOT TOUCH ANYTHING.  I may have tried to say it loud enough that the salesmen could all hear that I was making a valiant effort, and anything that followed was not directly a result of lax parenting.  I armed Brooks with a sippy cup of water-- not milk because he has tendency to throw things, and even leak-proof sippy cups leak sometimes-- and parked the stroller a safe distance from any of the tables of $100 ties and even pricier suits (that were currently buy one, get THREE free?!).  I also tried to convince the girls to entertain their brother.  I then went to the shirt racks and tried to peruse as efficiently as I could.

The first few minutes went well.  The girls just marveled at how nice and orderly the joint was, and Brooks always likes new surroundings.  The novelty soon wore off, though, and pretty soon, the girls were in full-swing, playing their favorite game: pirate puppies.  In this game, they both yip as loud as they can like possessed shih tzus while talking about searching for treasure.  Usually, I get to play a role as "the mean pirate who we don't belong to," but since there was new territory to explore, I was off the hook (get it? pirates? hook?) this time.  While frantically trying to match ties, I implored them to keep the barking to a minimum.  Good dogs don't bark all the time.  They are seen, not heard, right?

Salesman Mark started helping me somewhere along in this process, and he was really great.  I mean, REALLY great.  First, he didn't shoot me dirty looks, though I definitely got those from the other, older gentleman who was also manning the store.  And he commented on how cute my kids are.  I almost asked if he meant my dogs, but instead I just confirmed that, yes-indeedy!  They're cute.  And they're super well-behaved, and they haven't touched anything.  I promise!

The pirate puppies eventually sought refuge under the tie table, which suited me just fine.  They were in hiding (from, I don't know, Moby Dick?), so they had to stay quiet, and I'm willing to bet that if a new customer sauntered in, he wouldn't even know that the store was inhabited by a whole clan of canine scallywags.  Of course, Brooks took this opportunity to make his voice heard.  The store was no longer as new to him, and his sole source of entertainment was hiding under a table of ties.  What's a boy to do but shriek?

Fortunately, I had found one tie and shirt combo, and Mark and I were honing in on the second, perfect tie.  Then the eldest puppy transformed into a little girl and came running over to tell me, very loudly, that her bottom hurt and she had to go to the bathroom.  I tried to persuade her that we were almost through, and I'd take her somewhere soon.  That's when Mark cut in to tell us that they have a restroom in the back.  Okay, Mark... if you really want us here longer.

The four of us packed into the bathroom.  Brooks tested the acoustics with a few yodels, and Riley proudly announced (before I had time to close the door) that she had to go BOTH pee-pees and poopies!

About six minutes later, we all exited, and I hurried to confirm tie choice and hand Mark the money that he really did deserve for putting up with us.  As another customer entered the store, Riley came up to mourn, "My bottom still hurts!"  Oh my good gracious, child.  Keep your voice down.

"I'm sorry, Riley," I consoled, hoping just a little sympathy would do the trick, "I hope it feels better."

"But it still hurts!" she answered, not buying it. "And I have pee-pees on my underwear!"

"Shhhhhh!" I hissed while trying to appear totally in control of the situation and like this is the kind of conversation that is usually heard within the walls of Jos A Bank.  "Riley.  There is nothing I can do about it now.  Please stop talking about it," I pleaded.  "We're almost done."

Wrong move.

"Well, I need to change my underwear because I have pee-pees on my pants, and I'm just going to put my hand down my pants then!" she countered, loudly.  Oh, so loudly. 

Lord, give me strength and anonymity, I prayed.

"Okay, Heather," Mark said, "I think we're ready."

Then I resorted to what I hope many a desperate mom would do when trying to surprise her husband with some rockin' new digs while her kids, for some inexplicable reason, won't just stand quietly in the middle of a store and not touch anything: I bribed.

"Hey!" I said, all sunshines and rainbows. "We're almost done, and if you can be very patient, I'll get you a special treat when we leave!"

Fortunately, this worked on the girls, but Brooks-- who, by the way, had been fed up with the whole situation for some time-- doesn't understand the beauty of bribery quite yet.  So I also pleaded with the girls to make him laugh while I paid.  "Tell him a joke or something!" I said.  So until the point when we finally stepped out of the store, Brooks-- and Mark, who Noelle insisted be her straightman-- were bombarded with the same knock-knock joke, over and over.

"Knock knock!"
"Who's there?"
"Banana!"
"Banana who?"
"Banana talks to you!"

If you don't get it, don't worry.  My children have a very sophisticated sense of humor.

Needless to say, I won't be re-entering Jos A Bank any time soon, at least not until I cut and dye my hair, change my eye color, and the puppy children are all snoozing in bed.