Yesterday my wife and I took Wolfe on a little shopping trip to the local department store.
I’ve gotten to the point where I hardly ever bash the little guy’s car seat against walls, pillars, sidewalks or other inanimate objects.
But as we ventured into the baby section of the store, it hit me. Literally. I was trying to carefully navigate my way down the aisle, checked the left side to make sure the cart was going to clear the rack of novelty onesies, and I crashed directly into a display of those cheap foldable strollers. While I tried to clean up the mess, console my screaming son (who’d just had the rudest awakening of his eight week life–but there’s still plenty of time left!), and assure my wife that I am a safe cart driver, a smirking teenaged associate strolled by and asked if everything was ok.
Did it look ok to this kid?
When I got everything under control, I double-checked the configuration of the department. Sure enough, it’s arranged so there is no possible way to push a cart through without colliding with something. Now, of all the sections in the store, the baby department is practically guaranteed to draw customers pushing carts or other large, wheeled conveyances (what the Brits call “prams”).
If you don’t believe me, next time you’re in WalMart or Target or wherever you shop, swing through the baby section. Why do they do it? Who knows. I suspect it’s just those passive-aggressive associates, trying to get back at the man.
Whatever the reason, I know one thing for sure: it makes me cranky.